


The Knights and their Bees

by Niitza



Series: The Knights and their Bees 'verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Bees, Cats, Established Relationship, Everyone Is Alive, F/M, Fluff, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Kids, M/M, beekeeper!Cain, beekeeper!Cas, terminal illness, the bunker, wee!Cas & wee!Hannah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 05:00:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 50
Words: 54,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3678552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niitza/pseuds/Niitza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of ficlets taking place in the universe spawned by this tumblr post:</p><p><i>"Whelp I’m stuck imagining an AU where Cain is Cas’ dad and together they raise bees and make honey and wax candles in the middle of nowhere, Kansas - and Cain is totally onto that young hooligan who just moved here for some reason with his black monstrosity of a car and his leather jacket and who has the gall of making Cain’s boy </i>smile<i>, honestly, what the Hell, you better watch your back, boy, I’m watching you *squints*"</i></p><p>Not in chronological order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It all starts when Dean moves close to Lebanon, Kansas, with Sam—because Sam’s kick-ass lawyer career might have been the dream, but in reality it ended up being so taxing that it led him straight to a nervous breakdown, which triggered a whole bunch of pretty serious health problems.  
  
(Dean privately thought that the career prospects weren’t worth it when Sam was in grad school and rarely got a whole night of sleep and he certainly thinks the pay wasn’t worth it now.)  
  
Now Sam needs to recover in a sane, quiet environment. Fortunately, like a sign from above, they recently inherited that big old house from Henry, their granddad (who kind of disowned John by siding with Mary on that adultery-leading-to-oops-another-kid-meet-Adam thing that ended in their divorce about 20 years ago). It’s half underground, a bunker really, and it’s huge but it’s also safe and quiet and filled with books so surely Sam’ll like that, right? Right. And anyway, someone needs to go through that stuff.  
  
Of course, Sam protests at first because Dean has his own life and all. But Dean’s the older brother here: nature itself has given him the rights not to listen to him. So screw Sam, really. Dean’s gonna take care of him until he recovers completely if he wants to, no matter what Sam says.  
  
"I got this," he tells their mom when Mary expresses her own worries. She doesn’t try to stop him, because she knows what family means to him. It’s the same thing it means to her, after all.  
  
And he _totally_ got this. For instance, he knows Sam needs to eat healthy food, right? So as of now he’ll officially stop pretending that he doesn’t know how to cook, or that he doesn’t like it, and he’ll drive all the way to the freaking farmers’ market on a weekend to buy vegetables and fruits and all the organic crap Sam likes. That’s how serious Dean is.  
  
And okay, maybe the first time he’s that poor bastard completely lost among the heaps of produce. Who knew there were so many tomatoes? And how can he know which ones are best for burgers or tomato sauce, huh? But he perseveres.  
  
Or, at least, he tries. In the end it’s so obvious that he’s out of his depth that one of the vendors takes pity on him and asks him if he’s okay and needs any help. Who _does_ that?  
  
Some guy selling honey and candles and some shit most people don’t need and won’t even look at twice, and who therefore has lots of time on his hands, that’s who.  
  
But the guy is nice, and patient, and he doesn’t send Dean packing when Dean starts cussing at the 11 kinds of apples he finds, with no idea which ones will make the best pie—because of course his phone is dead, so he can’t ring mom. And crap, he just said that out loud, _in front of the guy_ , and how pathetic is that, that at 30 he still needs his mom to do his groceries?  
  
The guy proves his awesomeness by not even making fun of him for that. By the time he has everything he needs, Dean is endlessly grateful and shows it by buying three jars of honey and a couple candles because the guy tells him the smell can be soothing and surely it’ll help Sam with his lingering migraines. And then the guy offers him some gingerbread on the house as a bonus, like _Dean_ was the one doing him a favor.  
  
He drives home with a trunk full of leaves and a mile long list of dishes to try and make—and the reassuring thought that there’ll be at least one familiar face when he comes back to the market the following week.  
  
If he needed a sign to tell him he’d made the right choice, he’s pretty sure this was it.

 

— — —

 

Cain is stripping the leaves off a couple ears of corn for a late lunch when he hears their old truck screech its way closer, signaling his son’s return from the market. He listens to him stop the engine—which goes to sleep with an angry rattle—hop down, open and close the backseat door to take the cash drawer and the produce he didn’t sell and carry it inside.  
  
When he steps through the door, he’s humming.  
  
Cain puts down the corn to look at him warily. Castiel doesn’t appear to notice. He has a faint smile on his lips.  
  
"Good one?" Cain edges, unsettled by his son’s unfamiliar behavior.  
  
Castiel’s smile _widens_. “You could say that.”  
  
Without missing a beat he starts gathering the corn leaves to go dump them in the compost pit in the back corner of the garden. By the time he comes back Cain has drawn closer the clipboard on which the day’s sells have been listed and opened the drawer to count. He’s frowning down at the money.  
  
"Sums don’t add up," he points out, mood darkening at the idea that a customer might have managed to swindle his boy.  
  
"Ah, yes," Castiel says as he rinses his hands. "I gave a loaf of gingerbread away for free."  
  
Cain purses his lips. “And why would you do that?” They’re doing all right with their small farm, but they’re far from rolling in money and certainly can’t afford to start and hand out some of their products just like that. Not with the hospital bills that keep coming.  
  
Castiel shrugs and stretches up to take out a sheet pan. His voice comes out muffled by all the clanging: “He bought at least three jars of honey and several candles, I thought he deserved it.”  
  
Cain throws him a look, and makes it long enough for Castiel to notice when he turns back around.  
  
"What?" Castiel asks. When Cain keeps looking, he draws the pan closer to himself: "Mom used to do it all the time, it’s a good way to establish customer loyalty."  
  
The argument is sound—except for how defensive Castiel sounds.  
  
"Oh, _really_ ,” Cain says slowly, voice dripping with skepticism.  
  
"Really," Castiel replies decisively—except that he’s avoiding his father’s gaze and that putting corn onto a sheet pan doesn’t warrant that much attention. "You can ask her next time you call her."  
  
"You know what?" Cain replies, taking a sip from the bottle of beer that stands at his elbow. "I think I will."  
  
"Good," Castiel say, turning away to turn on the oven, before drizzling some oil onto the corn.  
  
That conversation stops here, but Cain’s not stupid. He’s equated Castiel’s good mood, his smile and his humming, with his subsequent defensiveness and with the slight flush tinting his cheeks—and he knows.  
  
Just like that, he _knows_.


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel whirls on him as soon as Dean’s out the door.

“Dad,” he hisses.

"What?" Cain replies, not quite bothering to play innocent.

"I _know_ you like him,” Castiel seethes. “So stop pretending you don’t. You’re not fooling anyone.”

"Actually, I am," Cain retorts, tilting his beer bottle towards his only son. "The only one that needs fooling."

He nearly grins, but manages to school his expression in time for when Dean comes back, carrying the basin Cain had just asked him to go fetch—without any protest, because he’s trying so _hard_ to make a good impression.

Castiel has to control his own glare so his sweetheart doesn’t start thinking he’s done something wrong. He briefly closes his eyes and breathes out, makes his shoulders relax. Then he turns away, smiles up at Dean and brushes a hand against his.

Dean fearfully glances at Cain at the gesture. Cain makes sure his expression remains neutral—knowing that, on him, ‘neutral’ looks half-way between angry and murderous.

Dean sweats.

Cain hasn’t had this much fun in years.


	3. Chapter 3

For the longest time Dean is half-convinced Mr. Knight hates him and the only reason he’s not dead in a ditch somewhere (yet) is that it would make Cas sad and Mr. Knight loves his son enough not to inflict that upon him and to respect his choices. To a point.  
  
For the longest time Cain himself isn’t quite sure how he feels about Dean Winchester or what to make of him—kill him or bless him—, because the boy is equal parts likable and profoundly irritating, and he’s at the same time the best and the worst thing to ever happen to Castiel.  
  
And then Cain Knight meets John Winchester.

 

— — —

 

(A couple of days later, on his weekly visit to his wife at the hospital, Cain draws up the—metaphorical—adoption papers she filled the first time she met Dean and somehow finds himself saying what—metaphorically—amounts to: ‘Do you have a pen?’)


	4. Chapter 4

The next time Dean visits, Cain asks him if he would like to come help him check over the honeycombs. Dean, who would never dare say no to the man, agrees.  
  
He spends the whole afternoon sweating in his borrowed beekeeper suit, half-convinced that Cain plans for him to get stung and have a lethal reaction so that he can pass off his (extremely painful) death as an accident.  
  
It takes Castiel hours (days) afterwards to convince him that yes, Dean survived and no, Cain wasn’t trying to kill him. On the contrary, he was trying to bond with him, in the only way he knows how.  
  
Somehow, Dean doesn’t find that prospect any less terrifying.


	5. Chapter 5

Sam’s starting to grow suspicious.  
  
It’s just, there’s honey _everywhere_ : in his tea, in his coffee, in every single homemade pie, in the vegetable stir-fries, in the sauces, in the apple compote… And it’s gaining ground.  
  
Thing is, he doesn’t know _why_. He did some research while Dean was distracted (which was easy, because Dean’s _always_ distracted these days, humming some AC/DC song or other while he tidies and cleans room after room like Cinderella after she’s met her prince); Sam went through the browser history, he tried all possible combinations of ‘how to make a moose get better’ in the search engine, and among all the websites he’s found, not one said that honey was the miracle cure. So, why?  
  
And that’s before he catches Dean sniffing one of the jars and smile in a way Sam’s never seen on his face. He looks like he’s high.  
  
Hell, Sam realizes, maybe he _is_. Maybe that’s what it’s all about—although he’s never heard of honey as a narcotic. It sure looks like it, when Dean proceeds to smear the content of the jar all over the meatloaf he’s about to put in the oven.  
  
This is rapidly spinning out of control. Which can only mean one thing:  
  
Time to call mom.


	6. Chapter 6

From the very beginning Cain had no illusions that his gift for connecting with bees didn’t extend to humans and that, of the two of them, Colette was the one with the people (and marketing) skills. So it didn’t come as a surprise that, when they settled into their lives, she ended up being the one who went to the market to sell their products while he confined himself to the garden and orchard.  
  
As soon as she deemed the children old enough, she started taking them with her. Somehow, instead of making things harder because she now had two little rays of sunshine to look after, it _improved_ their sales.  
  
Cain didn’t ask. All he needed was to see their smiles, their flushed cheeks when they came back to be satisfied. Castiel would bring him the cashier drawer and scramble onto his lap so they could count their hard-won money together and Hannah would try to wheedle a couple of unsold candies out of her mother—often with little success.  
  
It was their little Sunday ritual.

 

— — —

 

Then Colette fell sick.

 

— — —

 

Thing was, they still had to sell their honey. So when Sunday came, three weeks after Colette’s hospitalization, Cain gathered his strength, loaded the truck, bundled the kids in the back seat and drove to the market.  
  
It was a disaster. Cain knew he looked worse for wear, that the way he moved and spoke around strangers came off as unpracticed, rough around the edges and maybe intimidating—but he was _trying_. It didn’t stop anyone from scuttling away from their stall like it was Hell’s door open wide.  
  
Needless to say, they didn’t sell much that day. Or the week after. Or the week after that—until Castiel, little Castiel, barely ten years old and already so strong and brave and stubborn, took the matter into his own hands. Or rather, he took his _father_ by the hand and dragged him behind the truck, out of sight.  
  
"You’re scaring them, dad," he said.  
  
Cain crossed his arms. “I’m not doing anything.” Because it wasn’t like he was doing this _on purpose_. It wasn’t his fault if people were wimps cowering at the faintest twitch of his eyebrows.  
  
Castiel simply gave him a look. Cain returned it.  
  
Like he said: _stubborn_.  
  
"Just… Let us handle it, okay?" Castiel finally said. "We have more experience than you here."  
  
Cain narrowed his eyes. His boy had a point. But 1) he had no need to sound so uppity about it and 2) usually they had their mother to look after them.  
  
"Trust us," Castiel entreated.  
  
Instead of answering, Cain leaned to the side and glanced around the back of the truck to see how Hannah was doing, manning the stand on her own. As he watched, she finished packing a plump bag of honey jars and sweets for a woman cooing down at her with a sympathetic look on her face.  
  
Cain suddenly had no doubt that Hannah had just used the large, beseeching, deep blue eyes of the Knights, combined with a line or two about what had happened to her mom, and the customer had _melted_. And had subsequently bought at least double the amount she’d set out for.  
  
When he looked back at Castiel, the boy rose his eyebrows pointedly.  
  
"Fine," Cain conceded. "We’ll try it, see how it goes, _then_ see where we go from there.”  
  
Castiel nodded, agreeing to these terms, and went to join his little sister while Cain ducked into the back of the truck, where he could surveil things without being noticed.  
  
From then on, business skyrocketed.

 

— — —

 

When he told all this to Colette the next time he came to visit her, she dissolved into peals of laughter. Mostly at picturing him trying to make nice with strangers, he was sure.  
  
It wasn’t _funny_.  
  
But it was also the first time he’d heard her laugh since she’d collapsed.  
  
So it was okay. He supposed.


	7. Chapter 7

Sometimes, Cain wonders. He watches Castiel, and he wonders.  
  
If he hadn't built his life in the middle of nowhere, away from everything and everyone else— (“Are you sure this is the life you want?” — “You big lug. I married you, didn’t I?”)  
  
If Colette hadn’t fallen sick— (“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—” — “Don’t be. Don’t ever be sorry, not for this. It is not your fault. It will never be.”)  
  
If he’d encouraged Castiel more to spend time with his classmates, with extracurriculars, with the world outside their farm— (“ _This_ is my extracurricular. Believe me, it’s much better than running after a ball on a field where they don’t even allow _daisies_ to grow.”)  
  
If he’d gotten over himself, over his reluctance, and hired a daily worker, or even a seasonal one so Castiel could do his own thing, maybe go to college like Hannah— (“Don’t be stupid, dad, you know we can’t afford this, not now, not with mom—”)  
  
If wishes were horses, he wonders: where would Castiel be right now? _Who_ would he be?  
  
He watches him go about the farm—weeding the garden, pruning the trees, caring for the bees—, watches him drive to the market and back, and he thinks, he knows, that Castiel could’ve been anything. A soldier, a doctor, a teacher… a lawyer, maybe.  
  
He watches him help with dinner, with the dishes, with the housework, watches him interact with the bees and the birds and the cats roaming around the property, and he thinks, he knows, that anywhere Castiel goes he would and should find a home, he would and should find friends, he would and should be loved and admired and welcomed.  
  
He watches him sit on the sofa and watch TV, sit on the armchair and read, sit on the back porch and stare in the distance, alone, always alone, with no one but his aging father or a wild cat for company, and he thinks, he wonders: Where is your life? Where are they, all these people that should love you?  
  
… Where is _your_ Colette?  
  
He never asks out loud, never dares to. Castiel doesn’t complain, never did, probably never will, but it doesn’t mean—  
  
Cain doesn’t ask, because he can’t bear the possibility that Castiel will agree, will tell him that this isn’t the life he wants. That it never was. That somehow, somewhere along the way his own parents trapped him, condemned him to unhappiness, to loneliness, with nothing but their choices, their troubles, their needs.

 

— — —

 

And then, Dean Winchester comes into the picture.

 

— — —

 

Cain doesn’t like him, at first, before he really meets him—but it’s just a way for him to avoid admitting that he’s terrified of him. Of this young man with vagrancy in the bow of his legs, with unending roads and their countless miles in the swagger of his steps, with the dark, smoky atmosphere of dive bars and motels wrapped around his shoulders. A young man with the experience of a thousand places in his eyes, with nothing but trouble in his smile.  
  
If there is one person who could make Castiel realize how limited his existence has been shaped, how much there is for him to see, to miss, to regret, it would be Dean Winchester, Cain knows.  
  
Or rather, he _thinks_ he knows.  
  
Because Dean Winchester isn’t just a daredevil that comes and go, quick as a flame and just as destructive. He might be more. He might even not be anything like that facade at all.  
  
He comes with a brother for whom he let everything drop, for whom he stopped running. He comes with a caring mother who visits once a month and whose glow melts his hard edges until his gentleness peeks through. He comes with a sweet tooth fond of pie and honey, with a bashful taste for home-cooked meals. He comes with the determination to drive an hour on a Sunday morning in order to buy fresh vegetables, or to spend a whole afternoon hunting for books in large print, just so his brother can feed his body and mind without straining his weak stomach and eyes.  
  
Most of all, he comes with an interest in everything Castiel has to say, an unwavering focus on everything Castiel has to show, like Castiel is the one to make him discover a whole new world and Dean the one bound to helplessly follow.  
  
He comes, and he doesn’t go.

 

— — —

 

One late autumn afternoon Cain comes back from the orchard, a basket of pears under his arm. The weather has been clear all day, fallen leaves crinkling dry underfoot, golden rays of sunlight slanting through the trees.  
  
On the back porch he finds Dean and Castiel, swaying slightly on the wooden swing. Their shoes and pant legs are dirty from a day spent in the garden, their hands littered with small cuts and blisters from hours of weeding. Now, they rest.  
  
Dean takes up most of the room, legs sprawled out in front of him, arms slung over the backrest—but one of them has come to cradle Castiel, its fingers brushing against the sleeve of his woolen sweater.  
  
Castiel sits with his legs curled up under him; he has settled right against Dean, cheek resting over his heart, one arm wrapped around his waist, relaxed. His eyes are closed. The smallest of smiles plays around his lips. He looks…  
  
When he notices Cain’s presence Dean almost startles, almost straightens up, almost disturbs Castiel. With a sharp gesture, a finger brought to his lips, Cain recommends silence, quiet, and Dean settles back down with a nod, hides his flush behind the cup he holds in his free hand.  
  
Some time ago it would’ve been a beer, but no one resists Castiel’s coffee for long.  
  
Cain walks by them and goes inside, at the same time shaken and relieved by the look on Castiel’s face: nothing but comfort, and joy, and peace. A look that says, _This is my place in the world_.  
  
_There is nowhere else I’d rather be_.


	8. Chapter 8

"His name is Dean, if you must know," Castiel says after four weeks have come and gone and with them four more small items added for free, even though ‘customer loyalty’ has clearly been achieved already.  
  
Cain’s eyebrows only quirk higher.  
  
So they’re already on a first name basis. Great.

 

— — —

 

"What am I supposed to do?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
Cain looks up, still clutching Colette’s hand, feeling helpless and hating it. She smiles at him from where she rests on her pillows; he doesn’t know how she can be so calm.  
  
"He’s going to break Castiel’s heart," he says.  
  
"You don’t know that."  
  
"Oh, I do. He drives a _Chevrolet_.”  
  
"An old one, which he could’ve gotten rid of and exchanged for a newer model, but which he keeps and takes care of and loves instead. All I see here is the commitment of a caring person."  
  
"You seem very well informed," Cain says, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.  
  
Colette snorts. “You’re not the only visitor I get.” A sparkle lights up her eyes when she adds: “To be honest, I can’t wait for Castiel to bring him here. I’ve been told he’s quite handsome.”  
  
"I see how it is," Cain huffs, crossing his arms.  
  
"Stop fishing for compliments," Colette tuts. "You _know_ I still think of you as the handsomest man I’ve ever met, so don’t begrudge an old woman her itch for novelty.”  
  
"You’re not old," Cain protests.  
  
"Our children are adults. Our daughter is married," Colette points out. "I’m pretty sure we are. But it’s okay." She puts her free hand on his, which are still cradling the other one. "I always wanted to grow old with you. I can’t tell you how glad I am that it I’m still here to see it happening."  
  
Cain stares at her for a long time and kisses her knuckles, because he feels the same but knows by now that the words will never make it past his knotted throat.  
  
Still…  
  
"He wears a _leather jacket_ ,” he mutters.  
  
Colette sighs.


	9. Chapter 9

_Five Times People didn't understand Castiel, and One Time Someone did_

 

.I.

Castiel is seven years old when he first realizes that the way he views the world--his world--doesn't always match up with how other people do.  
  
He's in the middle of his first grade and his father just dropped him off to school. Usually his mother is the one who brings him, which is why the boy who approaches him--the boy who occupies the desk beside his in class, with whom he plays at recess sometimes and with whom he eats at lunch--feels the need to comment:  
  
" _That's_ your dad?"  
  
"Yes," Castiel replies, not understanding the incredulous tone in the boy's voice.  
  
"But he looks _mean_ ," the boy says.  
  
Castiel frowns. "He's not."  
  
"He must be," the boy insists. "He's _scary_."  
  
"No, he's _not_ ," Castiel retorts with a glare. The boy can't say things like that, he doesn't even _know_ Castiel's father.  
  
A strange look flashes through the boy's eyes, maybe surprise at Castiel's vehemence, maybe fear. He takes a step back.  
  
"Yeah, whatever," he scoffs half-heartedly, for show. At the first excuse, he turns away and leaves.  
  
They don't talk much, after that. They never share a lunch again.

 

\-- -- --

 

.II.

Castiel tests the give of the branch under his feet and, deeming it solid enough to hold his weight, eases his way forward. Once he's gone far enough he hikes up the pole he's holding and, with several, well-measured swings, uses it to knock off the highest apples that would otherwise be out of reach.  
  
He stops when he hears footsteps rustle on the grass. Glancing down he sees his father looking up at him between the leaves.  
  
"We'll have to stop once you're finished up here," he says, tapping his watch. "Or we won't be on time to go fetch your sister."  
  
"Okay," Castiel replies. "Just..."  
  
He carefully turns around and repeats the operation with the last branch he hasn't beaten yet. Six or seven apples fall; the rest stay put on their stems, but Castiel knows insisting is no use: they simply aren't ripe enough. He'll just have to come back later for them.  
  
Once he's done he lowers the pole and lets it slide slowly between his fingers and onto the ground. He crouches, grips the branch he's standing on and swings himself down until he's hanging by the arms. He lets go, lands on the ground three feet underneath and goes to help his father pick up the fallen fruit.  
  
He can feel Cain repeatedly glance in his direction as they work, as they pick up the heavy, thick bags containing the day's harvest and carry them to the house, as they empty them into crates which they leave on the front and back porch so the apples can dry a bit before they go down to the basement. Yet it isn't until they are in the car that he voices what's on his mind:  
  
"You know," he says slowly, easing the car down the bumpy road. "I'd do fine on my own here, if you ever want to go see a friend too."  
  
"I know," Castiel replies, looking out the window. "And if I wanted, I would."  
  
He doesn't need to glance over to know that his father is now frowning.  
  
"I prefer being here," he adds before Cain can say anything, can try and ask if he's made any friends since the beginning of the year. He seems to forget that Castiel's classmates are the exact same people as they were the year before.  
  
"Do you?" Cain asks, unconvinced--like Castiel can't truly favor working in the garden over interacting with people his own age, like it isn't what Cain himself often does and is most happy with, like Cain somehow has the monopoly over finding people difficult.  
  
" _Yes_ ," Castiel mumbles between his teeth, so low his father probably doesn't hear over the rumble of the car. Not that it matters: he's coming to realize that no matter what he says, or how many reassurances he utters, Cain never quite believes him when it comes to this.  
  
The conversation stops here and the rest of the ride is spent in silence, Cain searching for words but not finding the right ones and Castiel pretending he can't feel his father's gaze on him, thoughtful and worried.

 

\-- -- --

 

.III.

Ms. Allen's office is small but orderly, if a bit impersonal--like the woman herself.  
  
"So," she says once Castiel has settled in front of her, trying to infuse her smile with some enthusiasm to counter his quiet. "This is the start of your senior year. Our appointment is just a routine one," she's quick to reassure him. "We only want to check up on you, make sure everything's okay. I've been told you still spend a lot of time at the library? Did you read any good books lately?"  
  
Castiel wonders if the question is supposed to make him feel like people care, or if it's just an awkward attempt to make him relax by talking about something he enjoys.  
  
"I have," he says, playing along. He chooses to be blunt by adding: "Books are much easier to deal with than the people around here. They're also much more interesting."  
  
"I understand," Ms. Allen says, although her smile has grown a bit strained. "It can be difficult to find people with similar interests as yours at such a small school. Usually that kind of thing gets better in college." She hesitates--they're reaching the heart of the matter, the reason why he's been called to her office. That was quick. "I saw on your post graduation plan sheet that you have no intention of going, though."  
  
"That's correct," Castiel replies noncommittally.  
  
Ms. Allen laces her hands together on the desk. "May I ask why? After all, your results are excellent, they're more than enough for you to get in. You might even get a scholarship, even though you have no extracurriculars to boost your application. And if you don't want to go too far, Kansas University has excellent programs."  
  
He waits until she's finished with her little spiel and says: "I have no interest in college."  
  
Ms. Allen wasn't expecting such a plain, direct answer. "But--" She flounders for a second. "I understand that you'd like to work alongside your father and take over the farm when he retires. Right? There are lots of degrees that could help with that, in... in business, or biology, or--"  
  
"It would be waste of time and money," Castiel counters. "There is nothing there that I would learn better than here, on the field, and that will really be of use."  
  
"You shouldn't think of education purely in matters of usefulness," she protests. "There are other, precious experiences to be made there that--"  
  
Castiel gives her a look, wondering if she'll realize that she's the one who first brandished 'usefulness' as an argument. She does and trails off.  
  
For a moment, there is nothing but silence.  
  
"I have some brochures here," Ms. Allen says once she's regained her composure. "Please read them attentively and at _least_ think about it. It would be terrible if, years down the road, you realized you made a mistake when you had a choice. Wouldn't it?"  
  
"Yeah," Castiel agrees, mostly to placate her so she'll let him go.  
  
He takes the brochures and reads them and looks closely at the programs she mentioned.  
  
It doesn't change his mind at all.

 

\-- -- --

 

.IV.

True to her organized and slightly anxious self, Hannah finishes packing her bags right after lunch, even though they will only leave for the airport the following morning. The weather is warm, too warm to go outside and work, so Castiel waits for the cooler hours of late afternoon by lounging on the couch, reading. A very faint breeze sifts from the front to the back through the screen doors.  
  
When she comes down Hannah sits down on the armchair beside him. She wipes her brow.  
  
"All done and ready to go?" Castiel asks, sliding his bookmark--a coffee stirrer with a slightly misshapen bee drawn and stuck on top by a seven-year-old Hannah for his ninth birthday--between the pages so he can give her his full attention.  
  
"Yes," she replies. "Or at least, I hope. I already checked five times that my plane ticket and ID were in the front pocket but I'm still worried I'll forget them."  
  
They exchange a smile, Castiel aware that it would be no use to try and reassure her, to tell her that her fear is irrational or that everything will be okay. She already knows.  
  
After a silence her smile fades and she asks: "Will you be okay? I mean..."  
  
Unwittingly, she glances towards the entrance to the kitchen, where they can hear their father washing the dishes.  
  
Castiel understands what she means at once, sees it in her eyes--how daunting the sheer idea of staying here alone with their father is to her. It's something he's familiar with, something that he's watched grow within her for years now. At first it was nothing but an uneasy spark, lit when their mother was taken away, leaving her the only feminine element in the house; it grew to a restless flicker with puberty, feeding on a longing for other things and other places; it culminated in a fearful flame as his own high school graduation approached. She was convinced that he'd leave afterwards, college-bound, and that only she would remain at their father's side. Castiel remembers her utter confusion when she realized he had no intention to go, only countered by her relief.  
  
She loves their father, of course she does, and she loves the childhood she's had. But they're not enough, not _right_ for her, not anymore. Not for the woman she wants to become, is already becoming.  
  
Leaving is the right thing to do, for her.  
  
The only thing holding her back, the only thing making her hesitate, is this: regret, guilt maybe, the impression that, by leaving, she's doing to Castiel what she feared he'd do to her; what she thinks he decided not to do for her sake--even though it wasn't.  
  
Hannah's well-being was part of the equation, but more as an added perk than a determining factor. She doesn't know that, though. Refuses to know that. Even when he replies:  
  
"Why wouldn't I be?"  
  
She frowns minutely, obviously wondering if he's telling the truth or skirting it. "I know we never talked about it but..." She ducked her head, lowered her voice. "Are you _sure_ you want to stay here?"  
  
The way she asks the question makes it clear that a positive answer is unfathomable. Of course it is, to her. She's leaving for the university of Chicago in the morning, for a scholarship, for an open door towards her dreams.  
  
"I am," Castiel replies quietly.  
  
"Your whole life?" she insists.  
  
Castiel shrugs, because he can't tell what he'll want, where he'll be in five years, in ten. But for now... "I am content with what I have."  
  
Hannah presses her lips together in faint frustration. "Don't you ever wonder if there might be something else, somewhere else? Something that'd be better for you, something more?"  
  
"Not really, no." He looks down at his book, at the round smiling bee sticking from it. He doesn't want to see the confusion on her face, knowing it will do nothing but fuel his own irritation--because why is it so hard for them to grasp that he's made his choices, the _right_ choices, for him?--and he doesn't want the last afternoon he spends with his sister to be marred by an underlying argument.  
  
Fortunately their father steps back into the room, dishes done, cutting off their conversation. Castiel makes sure it has no occasion to start again.

 

\-- -- --

 

.V.

Castiel helps his mother resettle her shawl around her shoulders once her coughing fit has passed and takes her hand when she lies back onto her pillows.  
  
"Here goes my hope of being allowed home for Thanksgivings," she mutters wryly. She doesn't apologize, though: years have taught her that neither her husband or son will take such excuses, as in their opinion she has nothing to be sorry for.  
  
"You never know," Castiel says. "You might make a miraculous recovery. And I know you have half the staff wrapped around your little finger, I'm sure they'd make an exception if you insisted."  
  
And he has no doubt they would, too. Even stuck at the hospital, making friends comes to her easier than breathing: she's on a first name basis with most of her caretakers--nurses, doctors and volunteers alike; every single patient allowed to leave their beds makes sure to drop by her room whenever they can; she never wants for company in the day room, be it to watch TV, play a board game or exchange gossip.  
  
Her mother's like that, always has been: no matter where she goes, she draws people to her. She thrives in their presence. Rarely angry, never judging, she makes them feel at ease. Safe.  
  
That's how Castiel's father fell in love with her in the first place.  
  
"Maybe," she chuckles. "But I'm not going to tempt fate, so..."  
  
She turns her hand under her son's so she can interlace their fingers.  
  
"It must be lonely out there, with your father gone." Cain left the day previous for a two-and-a-half days long conference cycle on agricultural biodiversity. "Quiet."  
  
"Not much more than usual," Castiel replies with a shrug.  
  
"True," Colette concedes, but her smile's half-hearted at best and soon fades. She squeezes his hand.  
  
"Mom-" he starts, knowing what's coming.  
  
She tuts at him. "That's just your mother worrying. There's nothing you can do about it. So indulge her and listen, okay?" She draws his hand closer so she can wrap her other one around it too. "I don't like the thought of you being all alone out there, never getting any visitors. Especially knowing that we won't be around forever. Have you-" She swallows. "Have you ever thought about doing something else? I don't mean another occupation," she clarifies at once. "I know you love the farm. I mean a hobby--and something that is not reading, even though I know you love that too. Just, something to take you out of the property and make you meet other people. I'm not even talking about a significant other, just... friends. People you can relate to and rely on."  
  
"People are complicated," Castiel says. In ways bees and cats and even birds aren't. He's fine with them, or on his own.  
  
And he doesn't see why he should inflict other people's presence on himself for any length of time, when any interaction that he has with them and that goes beyond the short and inane exchanges between him and his customers at the market make him feel nothing but inadequate and tired. When even his own family makes him feel that way sometimes.  
  
Like now.  
  
"I know," his mother says. "But you--and your father--are not that easy to live with either." Her face creases. "Look, I know you had several bad experiences at school. But people change. They grow up. It won't be the same now, with them or with anyone else. They can and _will_ surprise you. I'm just asking you to give them more of a chance. For your own sake."  
  
He can't refuse her when she looks at him like that. And yet.  
  
"Maybe one day," is all he says--because he can't make a promise he isn't certain he will be able to keep.

 

\-- -- --

 

.I.

Somehow Dean and Castiel tacitly come to a mutual agreement. Dean will teach Castiel what it can mean to drive for the sake of driving, for the landscapes rolling by and the skies opening overhead, for the feel of the road stretching endlessly under the wheels, always calling, always whispering the promise of its unlimited possibilities. In return Castiel will make Dean discover the simpler pleasure of walks, along roads and across fields, through clusters of trees and over small rivers.  
  
It's the latter they've settled for that day, on a summer afternoon already cooling into fall. The further end of the loop Castiel chose has brought them up what the people around here proudly call a hill, but which the inhabitants of the Rockies would feels generous dubbing a bump. They stop here for a while, catching their breath under a tall cheery tree getting ready to slide into his layers of yellow and red. Castiel hops onto the wooden fence running around its trunk while Dean simply leans on it, arms crossed, watching the wide expanses of corn fields spread at their feet.  
  
Castiel points out some landmarks that would be invisible to a foreign gaze, small spots dotted on the landscape by his memories.  
  
"So you've really been here your whole life?" Dean asks after a while, glancing at him. In the shadow of the tree his eyes glow a clear green, brighter than in direct sunlight. "Working at the farm?"  
  
"Yes," Castiel replies.  
  
"Huh."  
  
The grunt makes Castiel's hackles rise, makes him tense against the questions he knows are coming. But--  
  
"That's cool," is all Dean says. He grins. "I bet you know all the secret corners, and all the best places to hide and make out without getting caught."  
  
He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. Castiel can't help but laugh. Dean's being ridiculous, but Castiel loves it, loves the way he is when no one else is around: carefree and almost entirely rid of any filter, being nothing but himself since there's no one here to judge him for it. Castiel feels incredibly privileged to be among the people whom Dean trusts that way, even though he has no idea how it came to be. Why Dean chose _him_ , of all people.  
  
Most of the time, he manages not to let that question matter and to enjoy the way things are. "I know one or two, yes," he says.  
  
Dean straightens up to step closer. He props a hand on the fence right beside Castiel's hip and leans in with an exaggerated leer. "Show me?"  
  
Castiel still doesn't know what prompted him to talk to Dean that first day at the market--the lost look in his eyes, maybe, or the defensive set of his shoulders, or the wary curl of his lips... Or all of them at once, all these details speaking of bad experiences he shared. But God, is he glad that he did. He feels himself smile as he tugs on Dean's jacket, draws him closer.  
  
"Will you believe it?" he says against his lips. "There is one of them right here."


	10. Chapter 10

If there is one thing Winchesters and Campbells all have in common, it's their ability to worry over nothing.  
  
Case in point: the fact that when Sam rings Mary because he's concerned about Dean, all it does is make her fret too.  
  
It's all "Something's up" and "I knew we shouldn't have let him throw everything away" and "Not that there was much to begin with but still" and "What if it's actually been going on for years and we only notice now?" and so on.  
  
As a result, her bags are packed and her car on the road first thing in the morning that very Saturday.

 

\-- -- --

 

Dean positively beams when he opens the door to find her on the other side.  
  
"Mom!" he exclaims and spontaneously steps forward to hug her with more enthusiasm than he's shown in years.  
  
Mary returns his embrace, taken aback. Sure, they haven't seen each other in a while--not since she left after Sam was properly settled--but it's not like him to be so freely affectionate. Or rather, it hasn't been in a long time.  
  
She scrutinizes his face when they part, checking for what might be wrong, but he looks... he looks _good_. The lines under his eyes haven't disappeared but they've faded, like he's sleeping better. His complexion has become richer, his skin golden, his cheeks rosy with good health and joy at seeing her, his nose and forehead a riot of freckles. He smells of clean laundry and of the good sweat that comes from being active, of the corn fields outside and of coffee. No hint of alcohol on his breath, but instead she smells something sweet and sugary that she can't put her finger on.  
  
He looks happy.  
  
He urges her in, shows her around the place like she's never been here and leads her to the room he decided should be hers. It has been cleaned recently, the bed is made, like Dean's been waiting for nothing but for her to visit.  
  
He won't hear of her helping in the kitchen for lunch. As she waits at the table--and listens to him humming as he prods the steaks he's cooking--Sam shoots her a look. "See what I mean?" it says. He's clearly freaking out.  
  
She recommends he stay quiet until she manages to gather more info.

 

\-- -- --

 

She sees an occasion to get Dean alone the following day and seizes it: when he gets up early to drive to the farmers' market, she asks if she can come too.  
  
A strange expression flits over his face, like hesitation, before he forces a smile and says: "Sure."  
  
With that weighing on her mind, she tries to pry but doesn't get much out of him while they're in the car. As soon as the engine starts he points out how it purrs and proceeds to describe exactly how he cleaned his baby from roof to tire and replaced some of her parts so that she's now better than new.  
  
Then they're at the market, Dean with his hands in the pockets of his thin jacket--but he juts out an arm for Mary to take, like a gentleman. They pass several stalls without Dean stopping or even slowing down, despite the fact that a couple of merchants have some good produce--Mary notices, among others, a bunch of apples that would be perfect for some pie. She's surprised, therefore, when Dean comes to a halt without warning.  
  
"Hey, Cas," he says, and Mary whips her head around at the tone of his voice.  
  
She's never heard him use it before. A glance informs her that it's accompanied by a look that's equally unfamiliar.  
  
"Hello, Dean."  
  
The greeting draws her attention away from her son and to the person standing on the other side of the booth--which displays a whole pallet of honey jars, candles, candies and some fruit. It's a man around Dean's age, maybe a bit older, with messy dark hair and stubble that brings out his strikingly blue eyes. They're riveted on Dean as he... kind of... stares. With that small smile on his lips. The same smile as the one making the corners of Dean's eyes crinkle.  
  
"Did you like the pine honey?" the man asks.  
  
"Yeah," Dean replies, sounding unbelievably shy and yet entirely comfortable at the same time. "A lot better than the chestnut, actually. I'll take another jar, even." The man hurries to find one among the numerous types of honey he sells. "And oh, uh," Dean adds when a jar is gently pushed towards him. He clears his throat and takes a step to the side so that the man can see Mary better. "This is my mom, Mary. Mom, this is Cas. Castiel."  
  
The man looks at her with wide eyes, frozen for a second like a deer caught in headlights. He shakes himself, though, and reaches out a hand for her to shake, haltingly but earnestly telling her that it's a pleasure to finally meet her and that he's heard so much about her from Dean.  
  
"Did you, now?" she asks, throwing a glance at Dean, who's now definitely blushing.  
  
They linger at the stand for a while. Mary soon pretends to be engrossed in the candles shaped like bees, straw hives and flowers--she even buys one in the end--so that Dean and his friend can talk for a bit with the illusion of privacy. It's not much, in the end: a couple of halting sentences, Cas asking after Sam, Dean asking after Cas' mom, a couple of questions and answers about what honey would be best to go with pancakes--Dean subsequently buys a second jar--, about how Cas' truck is doing--Dean apparently looked it over a little while ago--and so on.  
  
They part with wider smiles, with dorky little waves, with bashful I'll-see-you-later's. When Mary and Dean leave the stall and she takes his arm again, he tenses, as if expecting something--teasing, questions, remarks.  
  
Mary wisely refrains. She simply says that Cas seems really nice and that she thinks it's great to support local producers.

 

\-- -- --

 

Sam pounces on her as soon as he has an opening--which happens when Dean leaves to go repair a sink, as it turns out he's becoming sort of a handyman for the people around here, especially since he's ready to help out on a weekend.  
  
"So could you talk to him?" Sam asks, eager and anxious.  
  
"I came, I saw, I conquered," Mary replies, sitting down on the chair beside his.  
  
"And?" Sam leans forward in his seat. The blanket covering his shoulders slips and she has to tug it back in place.  
  
"And I'm pretty sure I know what ails your brother."  
  
"Which is?"  
  
She'll admit it: Sam's worry is endearing. It's all she can do to bit back a smile.  
  
"Well, it would seem that your brother is in love."  
  
That's clearly not the answer Sam was expecting. "In love," he repeats with a blink.  
  
"Or definitely on the way there."  
  
"In _love_."  
  
"Huhu," she confirms. "With a beekeeper."  
  
"With a-" He interrupts himself and his nose scrunches up in confusion. " _What_?"  
  
"I wager it's only a matter of time until you two meet," Mary says reassuringly. She pats his hand. "You'll understand then."

 

\-- -- --

 

Dean calls sometime during the afternoon to say he will come home much later than expected because "ah, something came up". According to Sam, he's been doing that a lot, leaving for some reason or another and then just... staying gone. With little to no explanation.  
  
Of course, that's if you don't know how to interpret what "something" really means. You'll probably worry, then. But Mary wasn't born yesterday.  
  
"Fine," she says. "Will you be home in time for dinner?"  
  
"No," Dean replies at once, before realizing he did far too rapidly and confidently for someone confronted to an unexpected turn of events. "I don't think so," he assuaged. "So, huh, just, don't wait up."  
  
Mary raises her eyebrows and has to bite back a smirk. "Okay. Don't come home too late, though, I want to be able to see you in the morning before I leave."  
  
Dean agrees, and she lets him go--her little birdie trying to fly for the first time in a long long time.


	11. Chapter 11

Sam Winchester is very tall.  
  
"You’re very tall," Cain says.  
  
"Um, thank you? Sir?" He is also, apparently, as easily intimidated by the Knight deadpan stare as Dean. Good.  
  
Cain crosses his arms. Sam swallows. “You ever plowed a field, boy?”  
  
"I… help my mother in the garden? Sometimes?" Sam faintly replies. "Sir."  
  
Cain _looks_ at him for a long time. When the boy sweats like that, he can definitely see the family resemblance.  
  
After a while, Cain turns to Dean. “He’ll do.”  
  
Dean’s first reaction is to grin victoriously—but he schools his expression at once, since Cain’s still looking.  
  
He can’t quite hide his giddiness, though, and doesn’t even flinch when Castiel takes his hand for everyone present to see. He has reason to: their road trip is a go.

 

— — —

 

Of course, when it comes down to actually leaving, Dean stalls and turns into a mother hen, which Cain watches with bemused amusement. It’s all “Don’t overdo it, ‘kay?” and “Eat your vegetables” and “If there’s anything wrong, call mom at once”.  
  
Cain is quite impressed with Sam’s ability to make his “Yes, Dean”, “I will, Dean”, “Of course, Dean” sound like “I haven’t had a relapse in nearly a year, Dean”, “I’m not _five_ , Dean”, “Oh my God, I’m not _stupid_ , Dean”.  
  
In the end, Castiel has to drag Dean to the car and push him down into the driver’s seat.  
  
And just like that they’re gone.

 

— — —

 

It takes Cain two days before he caves in and goes to the hospital for an unscheduled visit. Colette isn’t even surprised to see him.  
  
"I’m fine. Everything is fine," he reassures her at once, although she doesn’t need it and most of all isn’t fooled.  
  
Problem is, things _are_ fine. Sam is a good kid, he does a good job (although Cain won’t let him know it, because that’d be 1. too easy and 2. no fun).  
  
But when he gets up in the morning he’s already fine and dandy instead of stumbling around, a grumbling mess until he’s had his first cup of coffee. He moves like an automaton when around the bees, terrified that he’ll make a comb drop or get stung or break something instead of just doing his thing, gently pushing the workers away if they’re at risk of getting crushed and greeting some of them by name. He keeps asking Cain to confirm that the weed he’s about to pull is indeed a weed and not, like, something important, because he doesn’t know the first thing about plants, not really.  
  
In the evening he watches the news instead of cartoons.  
  
He’s good, he’s great, but he’s not Castiel, and Cain is just now realizing that apart from a couple of field trips when he was in school, his boy hasn’t ever been away from home for any length of time. And it’s… it’s just…  
  
"What if he doesn’t come back?"

 

— — —

 

(Castiel does come back, though, smiling wide, drunk on life and love and everything he’s seen. His hair is windswept, his clothes wrinkled but he exudes happiness over his exhaustion.  
  
He also makes an immediate beeline for the hives to check on them while Dean goes pet Sam to make sure he’s okay and Cain, watching his son from the back porch and hearing Sam’s protests and reassurances from two rooms away, feels himself almost smile.)


	12. Chapter 12

Castiel was busy setting up his booth at the market, all sharp, swift gestures, when he heard the voice: “Hey, Cas.”  
  
His hand faltered and put down the jar he was holding a lot less violently than he’d been going for. “Dean. Hello.”  
  
For some reason he didn’t manage to look up at him. Dean was early, this week, which meant that Castiel was caught off guard, hadn’t had the time to calm down like he’d been planning to. He busied himself with the candles instead.  
  
"Everything okay?" Dean asked hesitantly after a couple seconds.  
  
"Yes." Castiel realized a second too late how curt that sounded and how hard he’d just slammed down the small box he’d brought up. He paused, closed his eyes, let out a sigh. The he finally met Dean’s gaze. "It’s just… My father. Sometimes."  
  
Dean spared him having to try and smile by letting his lips curl wryly and nodding, understanding what Castiel meant at once.  
  
"Don’t they all," he muttered—and Castiel didn’t know the whole story here, not yet, but there had been enough mentions made in passing over the course of their acquaintance to realize that yes, Dean probably knew.  
  
He remained standing where he was, too, hands buried in the pockets of his jacket to ward off the autumnal chill, an implicit offer to be here and listen if Castiel needed to vent.  
  
"It’s just," Castiel gave in almost despite himself, although he kept his eyes on the products he was arranging because he knew looking at Dean would make him clam up at once. "Do you ever have the feeling that— No, do you ever _know_ that deep down your family’s convinced that what you’re doing is not what you should be doing? That somehow the choices you’re making aren’t the right ones, like they know _better_ —like choosing something that they’d never choose or that most people wouldn’t somehow makes it wrong? Like by choosing to put something—to put them—first you… you sacrificed yourself or something and—” He floundered, at a loss for word.  
  
"And they’re convinced that with time you’ll come to realize all the things you’ve missed and resent them for it, that you’ll necessarily think that it wasn’t worth it, because putting others first just can’t be what anyone would or should want, even less do? Yeah, I get that too."  
  
Castiel glanced up in surprise at how on point Dean was. He received a twitch of a smile in return.  
  
"I’m here," Dean said. "With Sam. And in his eyes—in mom’s—I let drop my whole life just to take care of him. They thought I was getting it together, you know, finally, I had found some crap job as construction worker, the pay was okay, or at least it was a stable income after years of odd jobs and drifting around. To them I just threw that out the window, when _finally_ —”  
  
He shrugged.  
  
"Whereas it was all wrong for you and all you were waiting for was an occasion to escape?" Castiel finished for him.  
  
Dean chuckled. “Kinda, yeah.” He let out a breath and looked around. “What’s sure is that this, here, this is better. I like to take care of Sam. It’s the only thing I ever did right.”  
  
"Now I’m sure that’s not true," Castiel protested softly. "It can’t be the _only_ thing.”  
  
Dean had repaired his truck like it was nothing; he’d brought him a slice of pie once to show him how well the farm’s honey enhanced the apples’ flavor’s and it had been the best thing Castiel had tasted in years. He had no doubt there was more.  
  
He even hoped he’d get to discover it.  
  
They’d settled into silence.  
  
"It’s just," Castiel said, feeling like he needed to share something in exchange for Dean’s honesty. "I love it here, you know? I love my bees, I love working in the fields, having a garden, I love the open spaces. And I don’t understand why my family thinks that I should want something else, or that I actually do, but gave up on it for some reason. Like this life is a step down from another fabled existence." He sighed. "Hannah went to college, got a job at the hospital in Topeka, because she wanted to—and I knew I could do the same. But I _didn’t_ want to. Still don’t. Why is that so hard for them to understand?”  
  
"Beats me," Dean said with empathy. "But hey," he added with a grin. "At least _I_ am not complaining. Your honey’s kinda addictive.”  
  
Castiel felt himself smile. “I know. Which one do you want to try this time?”  
  
When he drove back home afterwards he felt lighter and was smiling—but that might have been due to the ten minutes he’d spent with Dean as the market wound down, when Dean had made detour by his booth on the way back to his car and they’d kissed, hidden behind Castiel’s truck like teenagers playing hooky while everyone else was packing up.


	13. Chapter 13

For years now the Knights’ farm has doubled as a hunting ground for an undetermined number of cats.  
  
Colette is the one who first lured them in. They came for the treats, stayed for the preys and even tolerated a quick pat of her hand.  
  
Not of Cain’s, of course.  
  
Over the years he and the cats have brokered an agreement: the cats will hunt the rodents so they don’t pilfer the goods stored in the basement and shed, and in exchange Cain won’t chase them away when they find a square of sunlight to laze in, be it on the porch or inside the house. He’ll even give them some food and water from time to time.  
  
No petting will take place. Neither Cain nor the half-wild cats are anything close to a cuddle toy.  
  
Unsurprisingly, Castiel and Hannah end up being the exception to that last rule. For no reason Cain can discern, the little boy and girl are allowed to grab, scratch, caress and squeeze any cat they get their hands on—and given how often it happens, it soon becomes clear that the cats in question _let themselves be caught_. Maybe because the kids are just the right size to sprawl over without fear of being caged in. Maybe because their fingers are thin enough to reach that small itchy spot behind their ears.  
  
Maybe just because they’re Castiel and Hannah. Cain wouldn’t be surprised. After all, they’re his exception too.  
  
When Hannah leaves for college, her absence is noticed. It is not appreciated. It is put down as a treason that will not be forgiven; that much becomes clear from the first time she comes back home, for Thanksgivings, and is given the cold shoulder from all felines throughout. Somehow they’ve perceived that her departure was a choice, contrary to Colette’s, whose legs they’ve taken to brushing against every time they pad through a room where she’s sitting during her too rare and brief stays at home.  
  
Hannah takes the change in stride—albeit with a pained tightening of her mouth—and Castiel remains the sole cat-whisperer in the house.  
  
They come to him for petting, they come to him when they’re hurt. He knows every single one of them and when he hasn’t seen one in a while he combs through the property until he’s found it and made sure it’s okay. They purr on his lap on rainy afternoons, curl up at the end of his bed on winter nights. The females let him approach their litter, even let him watch over it when they need, for a short while, to leave the warm and dry corner near the stove in the kitchen, where they always settle to kitten. They watch him come and go with a fixed, curious fascination.  
  
Cain is grateful to them for knowing how special and precious his son is. So few people do. So many are blind.

 

— — —

 

When Castiel brings Dean Winchester home for the first time, the cats don’t let him touch them.  
  
However, they do come out of hiding, come close enough to see, to smell, to listen. To stay. Clearly he’s a riddle—but not a bad one.  
  
Cain is reassured. Slightly.

 

— — —

 

It takes all of five minutes for Dean to start sneezing. After that, he doesn’t stop.  
  
Apparently the pheromones of a dozen untreated, unsterilized cats are too much for his delicate nose to handle.  
  
Once he and Castiel are gone, Cain brings out the largest amount of treats he’s ever deigned to offer.  
  
He’s never like these beasts more.


	14. Chapter 14

The Knight men are not a talkative bunch. Their relationships are made of short sentences in between long silences, their care expressed in small attentions like a warm cup of tea on a cold day, a raincoat brought when it starts to rain, a book offered just because the other briefly mentioned it.  
  
Their conversations, when they happen, are mostly centered around bees, around the state of the orchard; they’re about what’s been done and what remains to do, about the prospects for the year and common projects for the back corner of the garden, which only ever grows flowers who’ll go brighten up Colette’s room at the hospital.  
  
When they’re about people, it’ll be Hannah, or Colette.  
  
Dean changes that—not that Castiel starts talking about him all the time. On the contrary, he remains discreet and private, like that relationship is but a fragile thing, a secret for him to have—and that Cain lets him keep because his boy certainly deserves to have something that is his own and no one else’s.  
  
No, after a while, and after Cain admits that he quite likes the boy—although he’ll never say it to his face—, he and Castiel find a new topic to bond over in John Winchester. Or rather in their shared dislike of the man.  
  
It’s things like: “He came by last week, and you know what the first thing he really said was?”  
  
"Hey, boys?" Cain suggests, voice dripping with sarcasm.  
  
"Hey Dean, why don’t you touch up your car before you get rust?" Castiel replies, like the words and the tone in which they were said carved themselves into his memory at once. "I wouldn’t have given you the damn thing if I thought you were going to ruin it." His frown falters and he deflates. "Dean didn’t say anything, but he hasn’t stopped cleaning her since his father left. We were supposed to go on a ride two days ago but…"  
  
He shrugs, arms wrapped around himself. Cain doesn’t have an answer, but he knows the angry press of his lips is enough, his tacit agreement with Castiel’s disapproval.  
  
They’re good for Castiel, these conversations: he gets to spew a bile Cain never suspected he could feel towards other people, and thus can hold back when in Dean’s presence, because the topic of Dean’s father and his numerous faults are a delicate subject on which Dean remains extremely defensive.  
  
Dean forgives his father for the wrong he did and does him. Castiel does not. _Will_ not.  
  
Cain takes his son’s side without question. He isn’t sure he could find a better way to give his blessing.

 

— — —

 

"You see, my dad," Dean says. He’s lying down in the grass, head resting in Castiel’s lap, turned away as he speaks. The words won’t come if he looks him in the eye. "I did everything I could to get closer to the guy. I took interest in cars, learned how to work on them. I dropped out of high school to get more hours at the garage. Don’t get me wrong, I love cars, I love to fix them because I can, I’m good at it, and sure, we needed the money too. But…" He trails off and when he speaks again his voice comes quiet, almost drowned out by the rustle of the leaves overhead. "I thought he’d be proud, you know?"  
  
Castiel, leaning back against the cherry tree, thread a soothing hand through Dean’s hair and listens.  
  
"He never said anything. We never talked about it, really," Dean says. "I thought, you know, we’re Winchester men, there’s no need to _say_ it.” His chuckle is half-hearted at best. “Only ten years down the road Adam, our half-brother Adam, he goes into college. Pre-med, university of Wisconsin and my dad…” His shoulders have tensed and Castiel runs a hand along them, down Dean’s arm, to uncoil them. “My dad didn’t stop talking about it for months. He rang Sam to get advice on the move and all, to learn about campus life and coursework. Turns out when he’s really proud he doesn’t know how to hide it. He doesn’t bother,” he added, his voice deceptively light.  
  
"Did you want to go?" Castiel asks. Dean turns on his lap, onto his back so he can throw him a quizzical glance. "When you were in high school, before you dropped out, did you want to go? To college?"  
  
Dean gazes thoughtfully at the branches swaying overhead. “Nah,” he says after a while. “That’s not for me. Sam’s the smart one in the family.”  
  
"That’s not true," Castiel counters, and resumes playing with Dean’s hair.  
  
"Which one of us went to college in the end, eh?" Dean asks rhetorically, his eyes closing. "And which one didn’t?"  
  
"Going to college or not is in no way related to a person’s intelligence," Castiel says. "I didn’t go to college either. Does it mean I’m stupid?"  
  
“‘Course not,” Dean mumbles.  
  
"Then why would it mean you are?"  
  
"It’s not the same."  
  
"I don’t see how."  
  
Dean frowns. “It’s not, because any college would’ve taken you and been damn lucky to have you, but none of them will take on some old loser drop-out with nothing but a GED to his name that he barely scraped through.”  
  
Castiel’s eyebrows rise at the unexpected tirade and its vehemence. “One, you are _not_ old,” he scolds, tugging on Dean’s hair in reprobation. From the faint whimper it gets him, he doubts it had the expected effect. “Nor are you a loser. As for if you’d get in or not, did you even try?”  
  
"I don’t need to," Dean mutters, avoiding his gaze.  
  
"I wouldn’t be so sure," Castiel retorts. After a short silence, he dares add: "You should try it. If you want to. It sounds like you do."  
  
"Yeah?" Dean asks, aiming for sardonic but failing by a mile. "To do what?"  
  
Castiel smiles. “You tell me.”  
  
A look flashes over Dean’s face—oh, he knows what he’d want to do alright. Only… His face shuts down and he attempts to roll away again. Hand still caught in his hair, another firm on his shoulder, Castiel doesn’t let him. “It doesn’t _matter_ ,” Dean says in a huff. “It’s too late anyway. And I have Sam to take care of.”  
  
"It’s never too late," Castiel reassures. "And Sam is doing well on his own. Besides, you could start slow. Take some online classes for a start."  
  
His words are followed by a long silence.  
  
"D’you really think that could work?" Dean finally asks, voice small.  
  
"If it’s what you want, anything could work," Castiel replies with utter conviction.  
  
Dean hums noncommittally—but the thought has clearly taken root. Castiel leaves it at that for now, leave it alone to grow and flourish. He gives in to the urge he’s felt since Dean turned towards him and bends down to drop a kiss on his forehead.  
  
Dean holds him back when he starts to straighten, cups his jaw and nudges his face down to kiss him on the lips.  
  
No more words come for a long while, after that.


	15. Chapter 15

"Huh."  
  
Hearing that surprised grunt, Dean glances over at Sam, who’s sitting in front of his computer as he’s been doing a lot these past months.  
  
As he got better, he buried himself deeper and deeper into granddad Henry’s collection of rare books and other miscellaneous items and now he somehow manages to discover something new and amazing—to him—every day.  
  
Sam being Sam, his natural reaction has been to get in contact with a bunch of specialists, of museums, of historical institutes and even of colleges to try and identify most of that antique crap. He even succeeds. Sometimes. He’s also toying with the idea of giving some of it away, to libraries or collections, because Sammy’s all about making knowledge and resources accessible to everyone.  
  
All that’s fine and dandy, but no matter how serious, how professional Sam makes the expression he wears whenever he’s in front of the screen, pretending to type Important Emails and post Important Messages on his brand new amateur-historian/archivist blog, Dean’s not fooled. He know that half that time is spent on Youtube watching videos of dogs doing allegedly cute things, on Twitter commiserating with Adam over the workload in postgraduate studies or, _worse_ , on Facebook, posting pictures of weird artifacts and gossiping with mom about Cas.  
  
As a consequence, Dean’s grown wary. Which is why he’s cautious when he asks: “What?”  
  
He will _not_ get roped into watching another video of a kitten flexing its paws or a parrot flaring its wings at a hairdryer.  
  
"Do you remember Jess?" Sam asks.  
  
Dean throws him a _look_. When it becomes clear that it’s not enough for Sam to realize the absurdity of the question, he says:  
  
"Do I remember Jess. Do I remember lovely, curly blond, potty-mouthed Jess. Do I remember my brother’s girlfriend of four years, the one everyone thought was going to make an honest man out of him, before he turned into a corporate douchebag who didn’t even care when she dumped him?" By then Sam has noticed what he’s stepped into and has raised his hands in a placating gesture, repeating ‘okay, okay’. Like that ever stopped Dean. "I don’t know, Sammy, am I 85 instead of 35?"  
  
Sam rolls his eyes. “You’re a jerk, that’s what you are.”  
  
"Bitch," Dean retorts automatically. "Why’re you asking?"  
  
"Nothing," Sam replies far too rapidly for it to be _nothing_. “It’s just. She liked a couple of messages I wrote on my wall in the past few months, and here, she just commented on one of the pics I took on our day trip to Topeka two weeks ago.”  
  
"Wait, you’re still friends with her on Facebook?" Dean asks with a confused frown. "Ain’t that, like, breaking rule number 1 of post-breakup social media-ing or something?"  
  
Dean doesn’t have a Facebook. But it’s okay: Cas doesn’t either. This is reason Nr. 342 why Dean _really_ likes the guy.  
  
Okay, maybe more than likes. Whatever.  
  
So not the point right now.  
  
… Shut up.  
  
"Well," Sam starts to explain, looking awkward in that way only Sam can achieve. "When we broke up, I-"  
  
"When she dumped you, you mean," Dean interjects.  
  
"When we broke up," Sam repeats with a poor attempt at a pissed-off glare. One day Dean’ll tell him it makes him look like a disgruntled puppy. But not today. "I was busy with school and then I mostly stopped using it, so I never went around to unfriending anyone and now…" He glances at the screen and loses his line of thought right there and then. "Dean, I think she lives in Topeka right now."  
  
Dean raises his eyebrows. “You _think_?”  
  
"Or at least she’s been there too. The way she talks about it in her comment…"  
  
"Let me see," Dean says, finally vaulting off the couch to join his brother at the table.  
  
A short fight over Sam’s laptop ensues. It’s a familiar, often repeated process, with Sam coming out the winner because he’s vicious when it comes to his things—never mind that right now he’s still weak as a lamb. Or a baby moose. Is there a specific name for them? Dean wonders.  
  
While he’s distracted by that thought, Sam resolutely tugs the laptop to him, a mulish look on his face. Dean concedes defeat. “Well then, look at her profile,” he entreats.  
  
"Look at you, all technology savvy," Sam sneers as he does exactly that. Dean chooses to let that comment slide for the sake of efficiency. They both lean closer to read.  
  
Jess’ profile, beside showing a picture that reveals that she only got better with age, indicates that yes, she currently lives in Topeka, Kansas. And-  
  
"Oh look," Dean points out, always heedful of important details. "She’s single."  
  
" _Dean_!” Sam snaps, as indignant and flustered as expected.  
  
"What?" Dean shrugs innocently, although his grin betrays him. "Really, Sammy, what do you want me to say? This right here?" he points at the screen, at Jess’ smiling picture, at the information underneath. "This is a sign."  
  
Sam _stares_ at him for several long seconds.  
  
"This thing with Cas really turned you into a sap, you know?" he says.  
  
"Say what you want, bitch," Dean retorts, straightening up and defensively crossing his arms—only to uncross them at once because he’s aware of how defensive it looks and he doesn’t want Sam to know how accurate he’s just been and thus gain ammunition. "I know that look," he adds, hoping to distract him. "Now go on, find something to say, reply to her comment. Show her that you’re here and interested in catching up."  
  
Sam’s eyes widen. “No! I mean, I _am_ , but…”  
  
"But what?"  
  
"What do I even tell her?" Sam asks, his voice small and eerily reminiscent of his teenage self.  
  
"Well, that’s for you to find out, Sammy!" Dean says with a grin and a clap on Sam’s back, happy to know that after 20 years, his brother still doesn’t know how to talk to girls. "Weren’t you telling me that you’re all grown-up now?"  
  
With that he beats a hasty retreat.  
  
He goes out to buy some groceries and starts on dinner once he’s back. He’s making lasagna. While he’s cooking he calls Cas to talk, because the sound of his voice is even better than classic rock as an accompaniment—but shh, no one ever heard him say that.  
  
When dinner’s ready, the table set and Cas has hung up to go have his own evening meal, Dean goes looking for Sam and finds him still sitting in front of his laptop, pulling his hair, trying to put together the right answer, the proper formulation.  
  
Hopeless. He is _hopeless_.


	16. Chapter 16

Jess sits at a table near the window, nervously fiddling with a sugar package as she waits.  
  
This is not her favorite coffee shop. For this she preferred a more neutral environment, a place she won’t mind avoiding for a while, if today takes a turn for the worst.  
  
Once again, she wonders what she is doing, and why.  
  
To get real closure, she replies at once, and distantly wonders when she started talking to herself. Maybe—probably—when things ended with Laurence and they left their apartment to go their separate ways.  
  
If she’s honest with herself she dreads the upcoming confrontation nearly as much as she did the conversation she’d known she and Laurence needed to have, already suspecting where it would lead. She tried to ready herself beforehand: she remembered why she and Sam had broken up in the first place, what Sam had been like then, in grad school, every day more cutting and distant and a bit further away from the boy she’d met in her second year of college and had fallen in love with; she waged that these changes had continued after she’d stepped back and that that boy was long gone. But now…  
  
She just needs to see it, feel it, she reasons, and maybe then she will be able to let him go for good, or at least enough for her next relationship to work.  
  
The door jingles as it opens. She startles, looks up and there he is. He’s even taller than she remembers, eyes nervously darting around until they settle on her and he smiles that familiar smile—  
  
Which is not the small, satisfied, calculating smirk she grew used to seeing on his lips. Not at all.  
  
She can’t help but smile back with a small wave. For a second Sam just… stands there, watching her. He receives a push in the shoulder for it.  
  
That’s when she realizes that he isn’t alone. Her gaze catches on the person standing right behind him—on Dean.  
  
She remembers Dean, vaguely, from the couple of times they met during her undergrad years. His visits always put Sam in such a state that they never were a nice occasion.  
  
But apparently, Sam has stopped perceiving his older brother’s presence as a burden. They live together, even. Sam told her. One more hint towards the many changes she guesses at, based on what little information she got from his Facebook page and their brief written exchanges.  
  
Discomfort and relief war in her as she wonders if Dean’s presence means that she won’t be alone with Sam for this. But all Dean does is say something in Sam’s ear, pat his shoulder encouragingly and send a wave her way before he heads straight for the counter. He gives his order and, when the barista reaches for a to-go cup, Jess understands that he was just there as moral support, in case she didn’t show maybe, and will now make himself scarce.  
  
Sam has shuffled his way closer and is now standing by the table, hands in the pockets of his thick winter coat.  
  
"Um, hey," he says.  
  
"Hey," she replies, no less awkward. After a couple seconds where he remains standing there, she points out: "You can sit, you know."  
  
He startles, clears his throat. “Um, yeah,” he says, and starts taking off his impressive outdoor gear—woolen hat and gloves, a scarf that appears a mile long, a coat lined with what looks like cashmere, and under it a big sweater, with the collar of a flannel shirt peeking out. You’d think they were in Alaska.  
  
He’s thinner, too, she notices when he sits down. His cheeks are hollow, more than just baby fat melting away; he has fading shadows around his eyes, his complexion is a lot paler than when he was a student at Stanford. His hair, on the other hand, is a lot longer.  
  
He’s been sick, he said during one of the conversations they’ve had on Facebook, before she suggested they do this face to face instead. The words now look like nothing but an enormous understatement.  
  
"So," she says when it becomes clear that he won’t be the one to talk first, the obnoxious and unpleasant confidence he’d been acquiring in law school nowhere to be seen. "How’ve you been?"

 

— — —

 

Her stomach feels like it’s been turned upside down when she comes home that night. When the door closes behind her she puts her purse on the small shelf to her right and sighs, closes her eyes and rubs at her temples.  
  
The afternoon didn’t go at all like she planned, or even expected.  
  
She thought this would be nothing but a short meeting with someone who had become a complete stranger; an occasion for her to get some answers—why Sam’s suddenly back on Facebook when he’s been neglecting that platform for years, now sharing picture upon picture of objects that keep getting weirder; or how come he’s back in Kansas, with his brother, when he used to swear that he wanted nothing to do with that state, or that man. She thought she’d get some closure. But instead…  
  
Sam was lovely. Quiet, a bit self-depreciating, open in a way he’d stopped being long before she’d ended things, in a way he’d maybe never been with her. He only briefly evoked what had happened to lead him here and now, which confirmed that it had been much more serious than what he tried to pretend.  
  
He was far more descriptive about what he’s currently doing, recovering and sorting through his deceased grandfather’s large collection of old treatises, manuscripts and artifacts. He expanded on them, on the specialists he’s in contact with, on the student who wrote to him because he would like to write his paper on one of the items Sam found, and as he did so, every sentence came out with a boyish enthusiasm which Jess thought had been lost. He was effusive about his brother, who appears to have a central place in his life now.  
  
Not once did he mention his career as a lawyer.  
  
He asked about her, too. A lot. He was thrilled when she spoke of her success in her career, when she mentioned that she’s still playing handball—the sports that gave her her scholarship in Stanford to begin with. He was genuinely sorry when she talked about Laurence. He himself was as succinct about his own relationships as about his health troubles.  
  
(Jess remembered Ruby, wondered, but didn’t ask.)  
  
He was attentive, curious, clumsy, eager. Nothing like the man she’d left, a lot like boy she used to known—only quieter, more mature, more aware of what and whom he has to be thankful for and now she…  
  
She is in trouble.


	17. Chapter 17

"Who’s that?"  
  
The kid looks like he’s about to cry.  
  
"This is Alfie," Castiel replies, unfazed as ever. "He’ll be helping us with the farm over the summer. Dean brought him."  
  
Cain narrows his eyes at the mention of his son’s boyfriend.  
  
Alfie whimpers.

 

— — —

 

Alfie’s interview went something like this:  
  
"Welcome to Biggerson’s what can I get you."  
  
"Wow, try to sound less enthusiastic about that, will you? You might fail at destroying your clients’ appetite."  
  
"…"  
  
"Ookay. I’ll have a burger with fries, extra onions."  
  
"One burger with fries extra onions coming."  
  
"That was even worse."  
  
"…"  
  
"I don’t mean to sound like a dick, but you should try to at least _sound_ like you want to be here. It’d help with the tips.”  
  
"Why would I, since it’s not the case?"  
  
"I’m not sure you should be telling me that but, okay, shoot. Why not?"  
  
"I’m manning the till at Biggerson’s for the late evening shift in summer. Why do you think?"  
  
"Why aren’t you doing something else then? It’s a summer job, right? You’re in high school?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Surely there are lots of places falling over themselves to exploit you at minimum wage."  
  
"Not so many around here."  
  
"Point." A pause. "So, since my order doesn’t look like it’ll be ready anytime soon, what would you prefer to be doing?"  
  
"I’d like to be outside, to start with."  
  
"With that sun and your complexion I’m not sure that’s a good idea."  
  
"I will always get terrible sunburns if I don’t get enough exposure for my skin to learn how to get a tan. Plus, there is something called sunscreen, you might’ve heard of it."  
  
"Whatever, Snark Jr. But you know, ‘outside’ here is mostly made of fields and big piles of dung."  
  
“ _Exactly_.”  
  
"You want to, what, roll around in manure and corn?"  
  
"…"  
  
"Say, kid, do you mind insects?"  
  
"I _love_ insects. The only reason I have this job is because I need the money for a vivarium. It’s the only way my parents will let me keep my tarantula.”  
  
"… Your tarantula. Right. To each his own, I guess. But, here."  
  
"What’s that?"  
  
"It’s a phone number, what does it look like? I know a guy. You like spiders, surely you’re not afraid of bees?"  
  
"They’re okay."  
  
"Call him. He has a farm. I can’t guarantee anything but maybe he can take you on. Tell him Dean told you to call. If you want to, I mean. The pay’ll probably be shit."  
  
"… Okay."  
  
"Great. So, uh, I guess I’ll be going now. Bye."  
  
"Wait!"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Um, you’re kind of forgetting your burger?"

 

— — —

 

Alfie settles like a charm in the farm. The boy sure has a knack for gardening, although he tends to get distracted by observing ants at work.  
  
The only problem is when Cain’s in the vicinity. Then the boy freezes and looks close to peeing his pants.  
  
Cain admits it: he feels sort of bad. See, he’s not a complete sadist. It’s fun to make grown men stumble in queasiness and sweat because, in his opinion, all of them need to be brought down a peg or two from time to time. It’s another thing to scare innocent teenagers half to death.  
  
But he has no idea how to change the situation. He’s not doing anything to actively scare the boy. Most of the time he’s just standing here, or walking around the property, going from one task to the next.  
  
It doesn’t help that he has absolutely no practice interacting with kids this age. The only ones he’s had any kind of real, durable contact with over the years have been his own children—who have never been scared of him.  
  
He remembers a time or two when he was angry—really angry, instead of only looking it. All he got in return was a profoundly unimpressed look from Castiel and a perplexed raise of eyebrows from Hannah.  
  
(Colette for her part only pats him on the head with a ‘there, there’ until he settles when he comes to her still fuming.)  
  
He tries to sound less gruff in Alfie’s presence. He tries to take some clues from Dean, who openly considers the boy to be the cutest thing around, even though—or maybe especially because—it makes the teenager feel mortified, but who also gives him advice on how to deal with his uncomprehending father. He observes Castiel, whom Alfie follows around like a duckling, asking a heap of questions.  
  
He doesn’t really succeed. But by the end of summer Alfie only looks nervous and tense when Cain addresses him, not a breath away from a breakdown. He even agrees to come back the following summer.  
  
Cain calls that progress.


	18. Chapter 18

Somehow the very ringing of the phone sounds agitated, cluing Mary in before she even picks up: something’s amiss.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Mom, hey. It’s Sam," she hears on the other end of the line. He sounds a bit strained, has to clear his throat, but he seems alright. She relaxes a bit.  
  
"Sam, hey. Everything okay?" she still asks, because she can almost hear him twitch all the way from here.  
  
"Yes," Sam blurts at once, unwilling to worry her. "Yes. I just… I met Cas. Today."  
  
Ah. Suddenly she knows what this is about. She settles the phone more comfortably against her ear, aware that it might take a while.  
  
"And?"  
  
“ _And_?" he repeats, incredulous. Obviously it wasn’t how he expected her to react.  
  
"What did you think of him?"  
  
"What I-" Sam trails off. "Well, he’s… He’s a _he_ , to begin with.”  
  
"Yes, he is," she confirms quietly.  
  
She frowns minutely at the silence that follows.  
  
"Is that a problem?" she asks dangerously, because surely Sammy wouldn’t think-  
  
“ _No_ ,” Sam replies emphatically. “I mean… Actually, you know what? Yes, it is. It is a problem that I didn’t _know_ , that no one told me— Since when is Dean even gay?”  
  
"Bi."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Your brother is bisexual."  
  
"Oh. Okay, good to know, but— Wait, you _knew_ about it?”  
  
"Sam," she simply says. He understands the implicit _Of course I did, who do you think you’re talking to?_  
  
“ _How_?” he asks, like he firmly believes that anything that gets past him can’t possibly have been noticed by anyone else. Oh, Sammy…  
  
"Well, when your fourteen-year-old son bursts into tears while you’re watching a western because you just praised Clint Eastwood’s physique and he agrees with you far too much, you kind of get an inkling."  
  
Another silence stretches.  
  
"Sam?"  
  
"… I knew he had a fetish," Sam mumbles, aiming for sounding peeved but not managing to quite hide his ruefulness.  
  
"I wouldn’t call it a fetish _per se_ but—”  
  
"So he’s always been like this?" Sam cuts her off. "It’s not just… well, Cas?"  
  
Mary sighs. “Why are you asking these questions to me, Sam? Why not ask your brother?” It’s not her place to answer them, after all.  
  
"You know why," Sam retorts defensively. "At least I can expect an answer from you. Dean’ll be all, ‘no chick flick moment’, he’ll make a joke about it and it’ll piss me off and I’ll say ‘okay, whatever, jerk’ and the conversation will end there and I’ll be back to square one."  
  
"You could at least try," she scolds. "You said he’s been different since he’s met Cas, maybe _that_ will be different about him too. And maybe he’s skirted the topic with you up until now because he’s afraid of how you’ll react—which can’t be helped by your own reluctance to talk about it. It takes two people to have a conversation, Sam, and one of them has to start it.”  
  
"… Yeah, okay, you have a point," Sam concedes. "I’ll talk to him. Or, well, I’ll _try_ ,” he adds, implicitly stating that if he fails he’ll be calling her back with one hell of an ‘I Told You So’.  
  
"Yeah, you do that," Mary challenges, quite convinced that it won’t happen. "And now that that’s out of the way: how have you been?"

 

— — —

 

Mary gets another call that very same night.  
  
“ _Mom_ ,” Dean hisses before she can utter a greeting.  
  
"Dean," she replies slowly, perplexed. "Why are you whispering?"  
  
"Holy Hell, mom. It’s Sam, I swear, I…" She can see him pass an agitated hand over his face all the way from here. "I think he just tried to give me the, The Talk or something."  
  
"… The Talk…?" she asks even more slowly, even more perplexed.  
  
"Or something!" Dean repeats, spooked. He’s flailing, Mary knows, walking up and down whichever room he’s taken refuge in. "He was spewing off a bunch of shit about tolerance and how he’s proud of me and loves me no matter what and how he’s happy I finally know who I am and he had this look in his eyes… I mean, _what the Hell_?”  
  
"I don’t know," she replies. "He met Cas recently, I gather?"  
  
"Wh- Well, yes, but-"  
  
"As in, he realized you were dating a guy."  
  
"We’re not _dating_ ,” Dean protests gruffly, because God forbids he acknowledges the fact that he’s in a relationship as defined by society’s standards—which involves two people getting to know each other, sharing their interests with one another, spending time together, signaling their growing affection by small attentions and displays and even—dear Lord—admitting to having _feelings_.  
  
Except, you know, he totally is. And revels in it in an almost revolting way, if Mary is quite honest.  
  
(But it’s high time her boy gets to enjoy such a thing, and it’s cute, so she tolerates it. Mostly.)  
  
Her unimpressed silence gives Dean at hint about what she thinks of his claim. She hears him shuffle, huff, scuff his feet against the ground.  
  
"Okay, so maybe we are," he caves in. " _Kinda_. But what does it have to do with any of… of _this_?”  
  
"Well, I imagine it’s Sam’s way of letting you know that _he_ knows, now, and that he’s okay with you being… you know, an equal opportunities kind of guy.”  
  
"And how would that- Wait, you mean he _didn’t know_?”  
  
"Nope," she says.  
  
“ _How_?” Dean wails, like he firmly believes that anything he himself is aware of—and most things he _isn’t_ —can’t possibly have gotten past Sam. Oh, Dean.  
  
"I don’t know, why don’t you ask _him_?” she says, feeling like she’s repeating herself.  
  
"He’s supposed to be the smart one!" Dean now sounds outraged.  
  
"I know," she says appeasingly. "He clearly has some explaning to do for leading us on all these years. _But_ —" she stresses. "He’s not here right now. So why don’t you tell me about how you’re doing instead?" And, knowing that Dean isn’t as easily deterred as Sam, she asks _the_ question she knows will derail him: “And Cas. How is he? Did you do anything fun these past few days?”  
  
She knows her son well: it works perfectly.


	19. Chapter 19

Once Castiel (and therefore Cain) has let Dean pry the lock open by allowing Alfie’s presence, the flood is only too happy to come.  
  
But what can Cain do? Castiel is (still) smitten and Alfie is… he’s a good kid.  
  
The ones Sheriff Mills is bringing in right now, though? Not so much.  
  
It’s the following summer and Cain realizes that he doesn’t actually know how _this_ came to be. Castiel took care of most of the formalities. And while doing so he looked so enthusiastic and proud about the idea that he and Dean had had that Cain couldn’t refuse him at least a try.  
  
What he’s gathered is this: it happened through some complicated thought process starting with an officer from Topeka complaining at Dean over a drink about some young delinquent or other (what was Dean doing having a beer with an officer from Topeka remains a mystery for the ages) and ending with someone believing that some trouble kids would benefit more from being taken out of the city than from picking up trash along the highway or being locked up in a home with old people in order to see the errors of their ways.  
  
Cain doesn’t know how that translated legally to his farm being eligible for such a project. Castiel filled up a lot of paperwork, went through a lot of interviews and walked a lot of people through the property, but Cain suspects that most of his son’s success mostly has to do with Sheriff Mills’ efficiency and with the unparalleled power of her Deputy’s sunny smile.  
  
(Cain will manage to frown at Donna Hanscum one day. He _will_.)  
  
What it boils down to is this: on a fine morning in early June, Sheriff Mills drives up to their house with three kids from the nearest home for youth in the backseat. The oldest is a blond girl with a fancy hairdo, far too much makeup for someone who’s gonna sweat herself through the day and shoes that are in no way suited for yard-work. The other two are younger, a brash-looking pre-teen with messy dark curls and dark eyes and a shrimp with glasses who really doesn’t look like trouble compared to the other two.  
  
Cain watches in the background, arms crossed over his chest, as they are introduced—Claire, Krissy and Timmy—and he’s grateful that Alfie is back this summer to speak teenager to them if needed. He first agreed to this because more workforce meant that he’d be able to actually sow something in the two outer fields that have lain empty for years, but now he’s not so sure.  
  
Castiel is at the head of the operation, seconded by Dean with whom they’ll therefore be stuck for the whole summer and who unsurprisingly knows some of the kids already. Cain has always known he was bad news. They welcome the kids, show them their rooms so they can put down their stuff, give them the rundown of how things are going to happen, followed by a tour of the property.  
  
Once she’s made sure that everyone and everything is settled, Sheriff Mills leaves, with the promise that she or someone from the station will come check up on them as often as possible.  
  
And that’s that.

 

— — —

 

It takes Cain two days to pick out Claire as being the incarnation of everything he didn’t want to happen when he agreed to this thing. Krissy is all bark and no bite and she actually does as she’s asked, even though she grumbles while she does it—for show, mostly. Timmy shouldn’t even _be_ here; he’s just an introvert kid who scares easy and flails, which accidentally pushed the boy picking on him down the stairs and earned him the label ‘problem child’. Claire, though. She’s another matter altogether.  
  
Her story, as relayed by Castiel, is one of abandonment: her father had a mental breakdown and fell off the map shortly thereafter. Somehow that prompted her mother to do exactly the same a year down the road, leaving her daughter with a grandmother who didn’t survive it very long.  
  
Cain’s not a monster, he’ll agree that it’s awful and make him quietly angry at her parents. It doesn’t excuse the girl’s behavior, though. She’s ungrateful and ill-mannered, resentful and insulting towards everyone—towards Krissy and Timmy, towards Alfie, even towards Dean. Towards Castiel.  
  
Cain doesn’t know what her _problem_ is with Castiel.  
  
It takes him two and a half day to decide to do something about it, because there are some things he won’t tolerate.  
  
He strides past them both that morning—up until now he’s kept doing his thing on his own without being shadowed by any of the kids, since Castiel and Dean have wisely decided to let them acclimate first—on the way from the house to the orchard. They’re by the shed, who’s in dire need of being ridden of the ivy that has been climbing on its walls for years, a task Castiel judged would be great for Claire to spend her anger on. He’s showing her how to unstick the branches from the roughcast and sheet metal they fastened themselves to and Claire snaps with a roll of her eyes:  
  
"I get it, I’m not _stupid_!”  
  
The tone of her voice makes it clear that Castiel, on the other hand, _is_.  
  
It’s far from being the worst thing she’s said to him up until now, without mentioning her overall lack of respect and her recalcitrance.  
  
Castiel, who never learned to fight back against his bullies, except by letting their insults roll off his back and going on with his life—albeit a little bit wearier, a little bit warier towards other people—doesn’t react to it. He only steps back with an “Okay”.  
  
Cain doesn’t intervene, but seethes quietly for the rest of the morning.  
  
By the time the afternoon rolls around he’s devised a plan.  
  
He makes sure to be present after lunch when Castiel gathers the kids to assign them their tasks and, before he can start, says: “I’ll take the girl.”  
  
He’s looking right at Claire, aware of how unnerving his direct gaze is. The teenager certainly doesn’t roll her eyes. She falters for a second but rapidly covers it. Or at least, she tries. Cain keeps watching her.  
  
"Okay," Castiel says after a slight hesitation. He gives the other kids their tasks and they all disperse.  
  
Arms crossed, still staring, Cain waits until they’re all gone before he tells the girl: “Come with me.”  
  
It’s not the first time he sees a protest flash through her eyes, only to be bit down.  
  
They walk—and walk and walk. As they get farther and farther away from the rest of the farm and as the others’ voices fade into the warm June afternoon, he can feel her nervousness grow. He can pinpoint the exact moment when she starts wondering where exactly they’re going and if maybe he’s taking her to a secluded place to kill her with a shovel and no witnesses. He hears her gulp, falter in her steps.  
  
She doesn’t run away, though. He’ll give her that.  
  
(It’s also stupid: she’s lucky he’s not really planning to kill her with a shovel, or else her stubborn pride would be the death of her. _Teenagers_.)  
  
He brings her to the outer field, throws a pair of gardening gloves and a straw hat in her direction. He gives her a spade and sets her to upturning the earth after he’s reaped the countless weeds that have grown on it these past few years. He even gives her another, small spade to uproot the most resistant thistles and bushes.  
  
He doesn’t pamper her. The field is not that big—hence why he’s not bothering with machines—but he makes it clear that he intends to have it done by sundown. If she pauses for more than two minutes or lingers too much when she goes drink some water, he remarks on it. He corrects her sloppy wielding of the spade with the deadpan snark of someone who’s been handling one his whole life and has no patience for teaching (he doesn’t).  
  
Soon her brow is furrowed as well as covered in sweat. She doesn’t snap at him, though, doesn’t dare; instead she grits her teeth, probably curses him to Hell and back in her head, and remains bent over the field, digging into the ground with far more force than necessary.  
  
She passes her anger on the most resistant roots, which is smart, but also wastes a lot of her strength, which is not.  
  
He finishes reaping much earlier than she shoveling and, once he’s packed the cut grass into large bags and bound the thickest stems and branches into bundles to be dried and burnt later, he sits by the cart and simply watches her, giving her rare, useless encouragements and not mincing his criticism the rest of the time.  
  
More than once he hears her mutter under her breath, without quite catching the words. She still doesn’t defy him openly.  
  
That drowns any spark of compassion he might have had for her even before it’s properly lit. He doesn’t appreciate how differently she treats Castiel, just because he looks like and is a much gentler, much better man than his father.  
  
The sun hangs low on the horizon when she finishes. She lets her spade fall to the ground and follows it down, gasping for breath. Cain hands her some water for her to rinse her hands—covered in blisters, some of them torn, but that’s her fault for taking her gloves off halfway through. Then he offers her a soda as a reward.  
  
She looks up at him when she takes it. He smiles.  
  
She blanches.  
  
"A whole afternoon of good work, spent without being rude or a smartass," he says, voice dangerous in its deceptive kindness. The can almost slips between Claire’s frozen fingers. "Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?"  
  
She doesn’t shake her head, doesn’t nod provocatively—this time he can’t even see the temptation to do so in her eyes. His face sobers, hardens, and she gulps.  
  
"You will never insult my son again, and when you see him, work with him or talk to him you will be respectful. If not, I’ll make sure you spend the rest of summer in a cell in juvie, thinking about all that you were offered but certainly didn’t deserve."  
  
She stares at him, her face drained of expression, now clutching her soda like it’s her only protection.  
  
"Do I make myself clear?" Cain asks.  
  
She has to try twice before she can get out: “Yes, sir.”  
  
"Good."  
  
He stands up and gathers the tools. She lets out a slow, trembling breath and pushes herself to her feet, ready to follow him back to the house.

 

— — —

 

It takes three weeks for some explanations to come to light.  
  
Cain is quite impressed: he thought it would take a lot less time for Claire to have her breakdown. Instead she gritted her teeth through the days and through her interactions with Castiel, deeply aware of Cain’s watchful gaze on her and therefore a lot less fresh.  
  
She didn’t extend the effort to Dean, but that’s okay. The boy has no problem standing his ground. Cain’s pretty sure he _enjoys_ the banter, actually. Probably because he’s been in a similar place once and knows not to take anything personally.  
  
"I remind her of her father," Castiel says when he comes back from Claire’s room, where he’s been holed up for over an hour, talking with her and letting her cry her fill. She’s asleep now, a bottle of water and a thermos of herbal tea waiting for her if she wakes up during the night. "She told me I look a lot like him. That can’t have been easy."  
  
How that equates to an excuse for her unacceptable behavior, Cain doesn’t know. But he knows that, to Castiel, it does.  
  
Castiel’s always been too good to other people. He mostly avoids them because he knows their faults and it’s the only way for him to avoid getting hurt, but that never means that he doesn’t forgive them for them anyway.  
  
"She didn’t have to be such a bitch about it," Dean mutters darkly. Claire’s snark might make him smile when directed at him, but it only elicits frowns and glares every time it’s targeting Castiel.  
  
"Don’t call her that," Castiel says, voice quiet but lined with steel.  
  
Dean dips his nose, slightly ashamed but also mutinous. “ _Still_ ,” he hisses, for a second sounding exactly like the teenagers they’re trying to rehabilitate.  
  
Castiel soothes him with a hand running down his nape, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, tender and amused and grateful. Cain feels the same expression threaten to take over his face—which is unacceptable. He hides it by standing up and announcing that he’s going to bed.  
  
He leaves them on the couch in the living-room, where he’ll probably find them the following morning, wrapped around each other, having fallen asleep between one kiss and the next or in the middle of a hushed conversation, because they’re stupid and still don’t recognize the signs that they’re far too old for behaving like this and should go to bed already. On the way to his room he thinks of how he’ll recount the whole incident to Colette, who loves it when he makes an effort to narrate the newest events properly.  
  
He allows himself a second, right after he’s closed his door, to feel glad that Castiel found Dean, who sees his worth and will be there for him even when Cain’s gone. In that second he even admits, freely albeit privately, that he does like that utter mess of a man.  
  
Sometimes.


	20. Chapter 20

"Wow," Hannah can’t help but say when Castiel ends the call and climbs back onto the porch and its swing, where she is sitting.  
  
"What?" Castiel asks, too distracted still to grow defensive.  
  
"Mom told me and to be honest I didn’t really believe her, but now…"  
  
At that Castiel’s eyebrows twitch. He looks down and to the side, makes an aborted gesture to rub his nape and oh my God, she thinks when she sees the blush rise high on his cheeks. Her big brother is being _shy_.  
  
"Love is a good look on you, Castiel," she says with a smile.  
  
"Cas."  
  
She blinks. “Pardon?”  
  
"Dean calls me Cas," he says, still not meeting her eye. "I’d- It’d be nice if you used it too."  
  
She stares for a second. A nickname. Castiel has a nickname—something he never had. They don’t use them in their family, because their father cares little for people too lazy to pronounce two syllables instead of one and raised them to be similarly reluctant about it. And Castiel is often too alien, too serious, too distant and evasive under his veneer of kindness for people to grow close enough and give him one. Except, now, Dean.  
  
"Okay," she says, now intrigued. " _Cas_.”  
  
She’s quite curious to meet him, now.


	21. Chapter 21

After their meeting Jess wonders what will happen—what should happen.  
  
She has no idea.  
  
But shortly after New Years, Sam calls her. They go through the usual greetings and well-wishes, and then he asks:  
  
"What’s your stance on _Game of Thrones_?”  
  
Loaded question.  
  
Jess’ stance is this: she can’t remember why but she missed the first season back when it first aired, even though it looked like something she’d really enjoy. And since she hates to start a series in the middle, she hasn’t watched the rest as it came; as a consequence she’s completely out of the loop, frustratingly so. By now it’s turned into a _thing_. Worse, it’s turned her into _that person_ , who doesn’t want to know what happens until she’s seen the thing by herself and therefore annoyingly squashes down any conversation her friends start on that very topic. She almost doesn’t dare turn on her TV for fear of what it might reveal. And she’s been meaning to buy the DVDs and finally catch up, but…  
  
But.  
  
"Why are you asking?" she asks guardedly.  
  
"Well, my brother got me the series for Christmas. I’ve never seen it because I was a bit busy with… things, back then and—you’ll think it’s funny—I actually bought him the books, so now he doesn’t want to watch with me because he wants to read them first. Which could take a while."  
  
She makes a sound to signal she’s listening, wondering where this is going.  
  
"So I was wondering," he goes on, slow and hesitant, "if _you_ might want to. Watch the series with me, I mean.”  
  
She blinks. She thought he was going to ask what he should be expecting, not that he’d actually suggest—  
  
"Oh, I-" she fumbles. But then she finds herself starting to smile. "Yes, actually. I’d love to. That’d be great."  
  
As it turns out, the only push she needed was for someone to be willing to share the experience with her.

 

— — —

 

There are some technicalities to deal with, since Sam lives somewhere near Lebanon and she in Topeka, since she has work during the week and he can’t drive himself.  
  
(“Sam Winchester, losing his driving license?” she asks, teasing and incredulous.  
  
He stammers a lot—“Ah, um, no, actually, it’s just, I.”—, but finally admits, low and awkward: “Three hours is too long for me to… Still. You know?”  
  
Her smile fades and she feels like kicking herself, then.)  
  
Fortunately Dean’s proving to be nothing like the man Sam used to barely mention back when they were in Stanford: as soon as he hears of their little project, he volunteers to bring Sam to her apartment on the weekend, discarding their protests by telling them he’ll use the trip as an excuse to drop by his and Sam’s mother in Lawrence.  
  
Still, in order to avoid being too much of a bother, Jess suggests a rotation system: one week Sam’ll make the drive to Topeka and the following one Jess will return the favor and come to him in Lebanon.  
  
(Maybe she also wants to see the place where he lives, which he’s mentioned in passing and sounds like some mix between an old fortress and a bomb shelter—the kind of place she would’ve loved to trample through as a child.)

 

— — —

 

Things are awkward, at first—but then, how could they not be when you are two people who haven’t seen each other in about as long as they’ve been together before that?  
  
Fortunately they have a purpose in meeting that goes beyond simply catching up. _Game of Thrones_ proves to be a most adequate distraction.  
  
Watching it with Sam is… Well, it’s great. He seems to enjoy the series nearly as much as she does, is as little informed about what will follow as she is and is therefore more than ready to dissect the episodes with her and speculate about what’s going to happen afterwards, while they’re waiting for Dean to come fetch Sam, or when they’re lingering on the armchairs they pushed together in front of the coffee table, where Sam’s laptop lies.  
  
(They’re trying to limit the number of episodes they watch each time to make things last, but aren’t very good at it.)  
  
They huddle together with food and drinks and it brings Jess back to her college years, when they did the same well into the night when they really should’ve been sleeping instead.  
  
And, in between episodes and discussions of theories and mourning over yet another one of their favorite characters dying painfully, they do catch up. It’s good; it’s great. Sam still behaves more like the boy she dated than like the man she broke up with, only quieter, wiser; kinder. He’s more humble, less oblivious. He’s finally understood that other people don’t always think or feel or react the same as he; he’s learned that the way _he_ thinks or feels or reacts can affect them, in good and bad ways—so he’s more cautious with it, more attentive, ready to listen instead of dismiss even when he doesn’t agree.  
  
It’s nice, to see he’s matured. It’s also nice to see him get better as months go by. His cheeks fill and regain a rosy hue as he recovers from whatever it was that brought him down in the first place (he still skirts the topic). He smiles more. He laughs, even—something that sends a thrill down her spine every time she sees it and hears it.  
  
She wonders what changes he notices in her.  
  
She wants to know, she realizes. What he thinks of her… It matters, to her. A lot.  
  
She is in so much trouble.

 

— — —

 

They manage to make the two boxes Sam got for Christmas last long enough to tide them over until the third season DVD comes out in February. They have to forcefully pace themselves afterwards, though, so that the ten episodes are enough until the fourth season premieres in April. Once it does, they have a fixed appointment each week to watch it live.  
  
They’ve grown kind of addicted.  
  
Reduced to only one episode a week, they find other ways to pass the time until Dean’s done with whatever he set out for that day in Topeka or until she feels ready to start the long drive back.  
  
(She learns more about Dean too, over these months. He makes himself scarce when she’s in Lebanon—ostensibly to avoid spoilers—but they still get the occasion to talk a bit from time to time. Mostly it’s what he does in his free time that’s revealing: when he drives Sam to Topeka, he’ll either go visit Mary to bake pie and do some gardening or repairs around her house, run errands all over town, meet up with friends or go to the movies. Half the time there’s another man with him, who rides shotgun and is briefly introduced as Cas.  
  
It takes Jess an embarrassingly long time to realize that Cas isn’t just a friend hopping a ride to the city—and it actually only dawns on her because once Dean turns up worryingly late, full of apologies, saying that he and Cas “lost track of time”, all the while rubbing the side of his neck like it will erase the bright love bite peeking out from the creased collar of his unbelievably rumpled shirt. Jess clues in then. _Belatedly_.)  
  
It’s still nice. But as the weeks go by and with them another episode in the last, still entirely too short season, Jess can feel dread growing inside her. Because…  
  
What will happen when it’s over? (She doesn’t want it to be.) When they don’t have that excuse anymore to meet regularly? (Because it stopped being about watching a TV series a long time ago, didn’t it? They meet because they enjoy each other’s company, because they’re friends again, because there’s _something_ … don’t they?)  
  
More than once she means to ask Sam what he thinks, but she can’t make the words pass her lips, which she ends up biting a lot. Instead she repeatedly glances at him, searching, prodding, waiting to see if he will say something.  
  
He doesn’t. He grows a bit quieter as the season draws to a close, a bit more thoughtful.  
  
But that’s it.

 

— — —

 

( _Don’t_ , Sam says to himself as he watches Jess shrug on her coat. She frees her hair from the collar and, as the curls bounce on her shoulders, he feels the urge to reach out and tug on one, just to see it stretch and roll back up like a spring—like he used to, before, fascinated. _Don’t_.  
  
_You’re friends_ , he adds when she turns towards him and smiles. “So, see you next week.” _Nothing more_.  
  
"Of course," he replies, opening the door for her and leaning on the doorjamb once she’s stepped through. _That you get even that is great enough. It’s a freaking miracle_.  
  
She climbs into her car, starts the engine, waves one last time before she drives away.  
  
Sam waves back with a smile, tramples down the longing inside. _And you have no rights to ask for more_.)

 

— — —

 

The season finale comes on a stormy Sunday in June. What little Jess catches of it, preoccupied as she is by this being the last episode, feels underwhelming. But then again, she probably isn’t in the best mindset to properly appreciate it.  
  
She and Sam discuss things half-heartedly once it’s over, and it’s atrocious, stilted and more awkward than it was at the beginning of the reacquaintance, every word stumbling over all the ones they don’t say.  
  
The intercom rings, signaling Dean’s arrival. With the season airing at a fixed hour, he didn’t have to be called to know when it’s time to come pick Sam up.  
  
The sound is both a relief and a stone dropping heavy in her stomach. Sam twitches a smile, which she forces herself to return as she stands up and walks him to the door. They make sure that he isn’t forgetting anything. They say their goodbyes. They linger on opposite sides of the doorway.  
  
Sam says: “I’ll see you around.”  
  
It sounds painfully final. Jess’ throat is nothing but a knot when she replies: “Okay. Have a safe trip back.”  
  
He waves. She waves back. He turns away and starts down the stairs, hands in the pockets of his light coat. She closes the door. She lets out a breath, slowly, falteringly.  
  
So, it’s over. Just like she knew it would be. No, the season and their weekly meet-ups are over, surely it doesn’t mean—  
  
Very, very stupidly, she feels like she’s going to cry.

 

— — —

 

(Dean takes one look at Sam’s face and pauses.  
  
"What is it?" he asks. "Did your latest favorite character die too?"  
  
Sam just stands there, right outside Jess’ apartment building, looking like his dog has just been run over.  
  
"Sam?"  
  
He startles at his name, meets Dean’s gaze.  
  
He blinks.  
  
"Fuck it," he says and whirls around, rushing right back into the building.)

 

— — —

 

She hears him come up the stairs, screech to a halt in front of her door and oh God, he _did_ forget something, and here she is, on the verge of losing it like an idiot and—  
  
He doesn’t bother with the doorbell, choosing to ram his fist against the wooden panel instead.  
  
She closes her eyes, breathes out deeply, then in, and out again; she wipes the corner of her eyes to catch the absurd tears threatening to escape before they can betray her, straightens up.  
  
She opens the door.  
  
He stands in front of her, a sweaty mess, gasping for breath after running up more than ten flights of stairs, which he really shouldn’t have done in his condition, what was he thinking, what was so important that—  
  
Their eyes meet, and all her thoughts dissolve because—  
  
Because—  
  
She doesn’t know who moves first but it might be her, grabbing his head between her hands to draw him down, and then they are kissing. She slings an arm over his shoulders to hold him close, to prevent him from leaving, and he wraps his own arms around her waist, pulls her against him to say that he has no intention to, and there are words, somewhere, trying to make their ways past his lips or hers, but only doing so in incoherent syllables, constantly cut off as she kisses him and kisses him and kisses him—

 

— — —

 

(Dean stares at the spot where Sam briefly stood for a long, long time, pursing his lips as he thinks. And comes to a glaringly obvious conclusion.  
  
It’s confirmed about ten minutes later, when Sam sends him a text stating: _I might be a while, Jess & I need to talk. Maybe you should go wait somewhere nice, have some pie_.  
  
He feels himself smirk. “That’s my boy,” he mutters as he types: _Don’t mind waiting here, take all the time you need, have fun_ and, after that: _Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do_ —two messages Sam probably won’t read. He climbs back into the Impala, settles himself comfortably in his seat and turns on some music.  
  
Then he brings his phone back up and starts composing a text to his mom, who’s been eagerly waiting for an update on the situation.)


	22. Chapter 22

Castiel is tending to his bees one early morning when he realizes he’s in love.  
  
He pauses. He smiles.  
  
It feels like…  
  
Once, when he was nothing but a boy, he happened upon a nest fallen from a tree in the orchard. Inside was a baby bird, frail and weak, desperately calling for a mother that’d never come. Castiel was filled with wonder, with tenderness for that small being, that tiny miracle of life struggling to maintain itself another hour, another day.  
  
He knelt down, picked up the nest and with it the bird and, delicately cradling them against his chest, brought them back home.  
  
He tended to the bird there, under the instructions of his mother and the curious eyes of his sister. And the bird survived, the bird grew, learned to chirp, to flap its wings and when the time came Castiel brought it upstairs, to his room under the roof, and let it go through the round window.  
  
It faltered at first, threatened to plummet to the ground, but it took hold of itself and disappeared.  
  
It didn’t go far: in the months that followed, in the couple of years its life lasted, it remained on the farm. Castiel could hear it in the morning when he came out, recognized its song among all the others’, and in return his heart was glad.  
  
It’s a similar feeling that runs through him now, careful and marveling at that small, warm glow he’s just discovered. And, once he’s done with the bees, he wraps it tight in his chest, in a snug and secure nest, and brings it back home.

 

— — —

 

Dean pauses at the third word he types, lets out a grunt of frustration, erases them all and snaps his phone shut. Ridiculous, he’s being ridiculous.  
  
He slips the phone into his pocket, stands up and goes to the kitchen. His mom is sitting at the table, a newspaper spread out in front of her.  
  
He asks her if she wants some coffee and, when she gives an affirmative hum, sets a pot to brew. Then he sits down opposite her to wait.  
  
Less than a minute later, he realizes that his phone is back in his hands. With an aggravated sigh at himself he lets it clatter onto the wooden surface, pushes it away. He stands up, goes to see how the coffee is doing. It hasn’t gone far.  
  
He can feel his mother’s gaze on the back of his neck, can see her faintly raised eyebrows without looking. He crosses his arms and doesn’t turn.  
  
"You know, you should text him if you want to," she says after a while.  
  
Dean nearly bristles. “We talked yesterday. He’s got stuff to do. And anyway, I…”  
  
"… You…?" she prompts when he doesn’t go on.  
  
He’s being ridiculous. He doesn’t even have anything to say. He left Lebanon eight and a half days ago—and isn’t that the worst, that something in him is keeping count, could give the time passed down to the hour, to the minute maybe? Nothing much has happened since then, nothing that warrants a message. And like he said, he talked to Cas _yesterday_ , there’s not reason for him to be so… to want to…  
  
"It’s also okay to miss him," Mary says slowly.  
  
"I don’t-" Dean starts to protest, only to stop at once, because he does, damn it, he does. And he shouldn’t, not like that. He _shouldn’t_ feel twitchy with the want, the need to hear Cas’ voice, low and gravelly but light as it updates him on things like Eleanore’s wellbeing—the bee gave him quite the scare by falling into a nearly frozen puddle several days ago—or the ongoing territorial conflict between Captain Hook and Gus over the stairs. He shouldn’t feel tense with longing for his gazes, his smiles, his touch. It’s barely been a week. And even then…  
  
He only notices that his mother has stood up and is now standing right in front of him when she wraps an arm around him, puts a hand on the back of his neck and draws him against her with a comforting “shh”. He unashamedly returns the embrace, clasping his arms around her waist and burying his face into her neck, because the way he’s feeling…  
  
It’s huge, it’s irrepressible—it’s a monster inside him that could swallow him whole, tear him apart. It’s a beast he never allowed inside but is here now anyway. Impossible to ignore.  
  
And he hasn’t been so terrified in years, hasn’t felt so close to a helpless, petrified child cowering in a corner, afraid of what might lurk under his bed, inside his closet. He squeezes his mother tighter.  
  
"It’s okay," she whispers in his ear. "You’re okay."  
  
They stay that way for a long time and when they part, she cups his face in her hands. “You know what this is, honey,” she smiles softly. “Don’t you?”  
  
And he does. God help him, he does.

 

— — —

 

Dean tries to do things right, once he’s decided to—once he acknowledged the monster, accepted its presence and the fact that it wouldn’t leave, only grow, and that the only solution was to try and tame it. Somehow.  
  
He tries, he _wants_ to do this right, to do something nice, but he’s so nervous—  
  
The pie is the sloppiest he’s made in months, in years, maybe ever. It’s faintly burnt on top, yet the apples have released too much water and soaked the dough underneath. It’s a disaster. Dean’s throat closes in frustration.  
  
Cas doesn’t notice, or doesn’t seem to mind. He accepts the slice Dean is almost ashamed of giving him with a smile, peppers it with cinnamon because he’s an addict, and tucks into it with the same gusto he does for anything Dean makes him.  
  
God, Dean loves him. But right now—all the time—his love feels like nothing but a poor prize, as mediocre as that failure of a pie and unlikely to ever get better, to ever be enough.  
  
"Are you okay?" Castiel asks, halfway through his portion because Dean hasn’t served himself one, hasn’t said a thing in minutes.  
  
"Yeah," Dean blurts, snapping out of his spiraling thoughts. "It’s just…"  
  
He shakes his head, stands up.  
  
"Dean?" Cas sounds worried, now, and damn it, Dean can’t _ever_ do anything right, can he?  
  
In the end it comes out much harsher, much snappier than he would’ve wanted, when he whirls around: “I love you, okay?” He breathes out, tries again, tries to be gentler. “I love you.” The words almost hurt on their way out.  
  
Cas has stopped mid-chew. He swallows. He smiles. “I know.”  
  
He reaches out a hand and, when Dean takes it, tugs on his arm to encourage him to sit back down.  
  
"I love you too," he says once Dean’s settled, calm and simple and easy as… Well, easy as pie. "Now here, have some pie."  
  
He cuts another slice and puts it on his plate, which he pushes so it sits right between them on the table, ready to be shared. He hasn’t let go of Dean’s hand, his thumb brushing against Dean’s knuckles.  
  
Dean lets out a huff, shakes his head, fond and grateful as his shoulders relax. He squeezes Cas’ fingers between his, meets his eyes. Yeah, he really loves this guy. He does.  
  
He picks up his fork, and starts to eat.


	23. Chapter 23

It’s not the first evening they’ve spent that way, a not-so-short ride to the nearest movie theater—which is actually in Nebraska—then back towards Lebanon after a late meal at a diner. They both had a burger and a beer—something Castiel doesn’t usually drink, but Dean makes him curious, makes him want to try what he has, just to see.  
  
Dean makes him want to try so many things.  
  
He cares little for that drink’s taste, too sweet and bitter at the same time, but he likes its effects, the faint buzz running through his veins, on his skin, the light-headed joy that stays with him all through the way back—although the latter might actually be due to the company in which he is.  
  
He makes Dean stop at the entrance of the dirt road that leads to the property so they can climb out and watch the stars for a while. Castiel’s father will have left the outer light on for him, hiding some of them, so it’s better out there. Quiet.  
  
Castiel knows that in the past, on his travels, Dean used to do the same thing on a clear night, to make a halt on a deserted road in the middle of nowhere to sit on the hood of the Impala and watch the sky. He likes to think that sometimes, even though they were miles apart and entirely unaware of each other’s existence, the both of them watched the stars at the same time, shared the same silence, the same wonder—together, in a way.  
  
He likes that they can do it side by side now.  
  
Dean is very distracting, though.  
  
Castiel doesn’t know if it’s the faint chill in the air, a herald of the upcoming fall, or the wish to make such a nice evening last a bit more, or simply the already deep-rooted and ever growing affection he has for the man beside him; but soon he finds himself wanting him closer. He tugs on Dean’s hand, prompting him to turn in his direction, and in the faint light it’s like he _has_ to lean closer, to run his lips up Dean’s throat, along his jaw, over his lips.  
  
Dean’s kisses are like honey, sweet and slow. Their flavor and warmth spread unhurriedly as they touch Castiel’s tongue, making him crave more and reach out for it.  
  
"You make me want," he murmurs against Dean’s mouth, pressing his whole body against him as Dean leans back against his car. A thrill runs down his spine, sparks heat in the pit of his stomach, lower, and he adds: "So many things."  
  
"Yeah?" Dean returns, and his next kiss comes with a smile as a pleased shiver courses through him, echoes in his hands, which tighten around Castiel’s hips. "Do you want—" The words are smothered by the next kiss, lush, lingering. "I mean, maybe, we could—"  
  
"Yes," Castiel says at once. He runs a hand through Dean’s hair, slips the other one under Dean’s shirt to reach the skin at the small of his back. Dean shudders and lets out a short laugh.  
  
"You don’t even know what I—" Another kiss cuts him off. His hand, when it brushes against Castiel’s cheek, is trembling slightly. "You gotta—I know you don’t—"  
  
"Dean." Castiel cradles Dean’s face in his hands and pulls back just enough for Dean to see his eyes, to know exactly how much he means it when he says: "I say yes, to everything."  
  
Dean stares at him for a moment, incredulous or overwhelmed. Then he blinks and impossibly pulls Castiel closer. “Yeah, okay,” he says with a nod and kisses him again. “Yeah.”  
  
"Come inside," Castiel whispers, hands roaming over Dean’s shoulders, down his arms, around his waist. As a consequence it takes some efforts for them to part long enough to get back in the car, to make the short drive up to the house, to pad through the back door, through the kitchen where they leave their shoes and up the two flights of stairs that lead to Castiel’s room, under the roof—where they’ll be undisturbed.

 

— — —

 

(“You wanna fuck me?” Dean asks, his smile brash and teasing but his eyes betraying how desperately he wants it himself, how much he fears… Castiel isn’t sure what.  
  
"Yes," Castiel replies, without hesitation. He runs a hand down Dean’s thigh, marveling at the slight catch of its hairs on his palm, kisses his kneecap. "You’ll have to give me directions, though," he adds, mouthing along the naked skin. "I’ve never done this with another man."  
  
"Yeah?" Dean’s eyes flutter shut. He swallows thickly and Castiel doesn’t quite now if what he just said has been a turn on or a source of anxiety, until Dean whispers: "Me neither. I mean, not that way around."  
  
"It’s okay," Castiel says, slowly making his way up Dean’s thigh. "We have time."  
  
And, as it turns out, they’re both willing to take it.)

 

— — —

 

Castiel is woken up by the familiar sounds of his father moving around downstairs, faint but perceptible to his trained ear. He doesn’t move. Cain is an early riser and Castiel might be too, but Dean isn’t, or at least not today. He’s still asleep, sprawled on his front and snoring softly, one arm thrown over Castiel’s waist. Castiel listens to his breathing, revels in the warmth of his body behind him.  
  
He only moves when he hears his father leave the house, probably headed for the orchard. The kitchen door clicks shut and Castiel turns onto his back.  
  
The slight disturbance wakes Dean, as he was hovering at the border between sleep and wakefulness. He snorts, frowns, then relaxes when he remembers where he is. Castiel watches it all happen with a smile.  
  
“‘Time izzit?” Dean mumbles, keeping his eyes stubbornly shut.  
  
"Early." Something in Castiel’s voice must betray him, because Dean squints one eye open, a flash of green. "Good morning," he adds.  
  
“‘Morning,” Dean returns, shuffling closer to rest his cheek directly on Castiel’s shoulder.  
  
"Did you sleep well?" Castiel asks.  
  
Dean hums a positive answer. “And trying to keep it up.”  
  
"I though you might want to be home before Sam gets up," Castiel explains.  
  
Dean lets out a grunt. His arm around Castiel tightens. “Sam’s a grown-up,” he grumbles. “He can manage on his own for one freaking morning.”  
  
"Oh," Castiel says. "Good."  
  
Dean pauses at the tone of his voice and blinks his eyes open. A smile starts stretching his lips as he props himself up on an elbow. “Good?”  
  
Castiel shrugs and smiles back. “It agrees much better with what I was hoping for this morning.”  
  
He wraps an arm around Dean’s shoulders, drawing him down, closer, close enough to kiss.  
  
"High hopes, eh?" Dean says against his lips. "Tell me more." And he kisses him again right after.  
  
It takes a couple minutes for Castiel to find the breath to reply: “Well, we’ll go down for breakfast. But before that—”  
  
Bracing his arm around Dean he pushes himself up and tumbles the other man onto his back. Dean’s eyebrows shoot up and, when their eyes meet, he grins.  
  
As it turns out, he’s more than okay with Castiel’s plans.


	24. Chapter 24

Days later, Cain is still reeling.  
  
He sits in the living-room, in an armchair near the fire, and stares at the dancing flames, a forgotten glass of whisky in hand. He’s thinking about Colette and trying not to think about Colette, remembering what the doctors said and trying to forget it, wondering what will become of her, of them, now, all the while trying to avoid picturing it.  
  
Chronic disease, they said, and added that Colette was _lucky_ , of all things, lucky that it manifested that early on instead of developing silently for years, a ticking bomb—because now they know and they can treat it, they can have hope.  
  
Cain has never been one to hope, though, and right now all he can see, all he can think, is—  
  
"Dad?"  
  
The voice draws him out of his spiraling dark thoughts. He glances over to see his son standing in the doorway, his small silhouette almost swallowed by the darkness behind him. In his eyes Cain glimpses the same fright he feels in his own guts.  
  
And oh, he isn’t good with this. Of them both _Colette_ is the one who is the most demonstrative, the most generous in her affections, the most reassuring in her words and gestures. But Colette isn’t here right now and Castiel still needs…  
  
He needs his father.  
  
Cain stands up, putting his glass on the mantle, out of reach, before he goes to sit on the couch.  
  
"Come here," he croaks. He gestures with a hand and raises his arm for Castiel to curl under.  
  
The boy swallows and comes at once. Yet when he steps into the room, Cain realizes that he isn’t alone. His sister is here too, hiding behind him, in the shadows, and now she trails after him, clutching his hand.  
  
She only lets go when they reach the couch and, after a second of hesitation, imitates her brother, climbing onto the cushions and burrowing against her father’s other side. Cain stiffly wraps his arms around their small shoulders, hesitant and awkward. After a while he manages to relax.  
  
"It’s going to be okay, right?" Castiel asks, voice hushed.  
  
Cain doesn’t know and he isn’t one to see the future in a positive light, but for his children’s sake he knows he has to try.  
  
"Yes, it’s going to be okay," he says. "The doctors know what they are doing and your mother is strong. And stubborn. You’d have to be to put up with me," he adds in an undertone. "I think we can trust her to pull through, don’t you?"  
  
Castiel and Hannah nod with barely a sliver of uncertainty. Cain wonders what more he can give them, what reassurances he can utter without it turning into a lie. He squeezes them a little tighter.  
  
He’ll take proper care of them, he _will_ —he promised Colette, even though she was unconscious at the time. He promised himself.  
  
"Can you tell us a story?" Hannah asks, resting her little head more comfortably in the crook of his shoulder, her little hands curling into his henley. Her voice trembles like she is afraid, like she is about to cry.  
  
"Of course," Cain stutters at once—only to immediately start to rack his brain, trying to remember one.  
  
Only one comes to mind—one in which he’s always seen a reflection of his relationship with Colette, even though she always scolded him for it, because she only sees all the ways in which they are nothing alike. He can’t help it, though. Even now her love feels like a miracle, acts like a saving grace. It always will, to him.  
  
He clears his throat and starts:  
  
"Once upon a time, in a land far far away, there was a village and, not far from it, a castle. It lay deep in the woods and was surrounded by a high wall as well as thick thorn bushes. No one had ever been seen coming in or out of it, and no one in the village had ever dared try and enter it—for it was rumored that the castle was cursed, and that in it dwelled a beast…"


	25. Chapter 25

Castiel’s father is the one to open the door when Dean arrives—a rare enough occurrence that Dean freezes, mind darting in all kinds of directions, most of them worst-case scenarios.  
  
"Good morning, sir," he says, resolutely pushing them back but still reverting to his good old army days by straightening up to stand at attention. Great.  
  
Surely Cain didn’t open the door to kill him while Cas is distracted by his coffee, did he?  
  
"I’m here to see Cas," he blurts.  
  
He feels stupid at once for stating the obvious, which is _not_ helped by the deadpan look Cain throws at him. _Clearly_ he isn’t here for the bees, or for the antique TV.  
  
"He’s in the garden," Cain says after several long, painful seconds of staring. He sounds even more grumpy than usual. "Maybe _you_ will manage to make him listen to reason and stop looking for long enough to eat and drink something.”  
  
Dean frowns at the suggestion that Cas might’ve left the house without having had his obligatory morning coffee. The guy is useless without it.  
  
Then he realizes that Cain has just closed the door right in his face, without even telling him—  
  
"Wait," Dean protests, in vain. "Looking for what?"  
  
Only the silence answers him.

 

— — —

 

He finds Cas in the orchard, ducked under the small trees lining its edge, near the river and the fence, where they mix with bushes and ivy. He’s squinting at the ground, shuffling the leaves…  
  
"Cas?"  
  
Cas probably heard him approach: he doesn’t startle, simply turns his head in Dean’s direction. He’s a frazzled mess. His hair is ruffled, with one or two leaves stuck in it. His clothes are rumpled. He’s unshaven, he has bags under his eyes like he hasn’t slept properly in days, and the look in his eyes—  
  
"What’s wrong?" Dean asks, hurrying closer and offering his hand for Cas to take and climb back up the bank towards him.  
  
"Nothing. I mean, I’m okay," Cas reassures him, since Dean has started patting him, checking him all over for injuries. "It’s just… Do you remember the youngest kitten in Dopey’s litter? The one we didn’t give away."  
  
"Because she’s black all over and people are either superstitious dicks who wouldn’t take her or crazy freaks wanting to play witches, yeah," Dean nods. "Why?"  
  
"I can’t find her," Cas says, tugging at his hair. "I haven’t seen her in weeks and—" His voice falters and fails him.  
  
"Well, of course you haven’t, she—oh." Dean lets out a groan and rubs a hand over his face. "Oh man, I’m _sorry_. I completely forgot to tell you. She’s at the bunker.”  
  
Cas stares at him. “At the bunker.”  
  
"Yeah, Sam kind of adopted her?"  
  
"How did she end up there?" Cas wonders, since he knows Sam hasn’t been anywhere near the Knight farm in the past month at least and therefore can’t have kidnapped anyone.  
  
"Erm, she invited herself in the backseat once and when I noticed it was too late to bring her back and then…" Dean shrugs helplessly. It’s a long story.  
  
"So she’s okay?" Cas asks, voice small and shoulders slumping in relief.  
  
"Yeah," Dean reassures. "I mean, she’s constantly risking being crushed by Sam’s giant paws but she seems to enjoy it, so…"  
  
Cas closes his eyes, breathing out slowly, and only opens them again when Dean cups his cheek, thumb rubbing against a streak of dirt smeared at the corner of his mouth.  
  
"You’ve been worrying yourself sick over her, haven’t you?" he murmurs and when Cas nods he pulls him closer, into a solid hug. "I’m sorry I forgot to tell you. She’s okay. I even buy her the best cat food I can find. She sure knew what she was doing when she hopped a ride, she’s such a kept woman, no hunter at all."  
  
He hears Cas huff in faint amusement, but he doesn’t raise his head from where it’s buried in Dean’s shoulder, doesn’t relax his grip around Dean’s waist.  
  
"Do you want to come see her, see for yourself?" Dean suggests.  
  
"Yes, please," Cas replies at once.  
  
"Okay," Dean says, releasing Cas and patting him on the hip. "But coffee first. And a shower. Come on."  
  
And, taking Cas’ hand, he leads him back to the house.

 

— — —

 

The adoption process happened that way:  
  
Dean pulled the handbrake, cut the engine and prepared to open the car door when he heard:  
  
"Meow."  
  
“ _Meow_?” he repeated, throwing a glance over his shoulder—and there, in the backseat, curled into a tight ball, he saw a small bundle of black fur staring at him with round green eyes.  
  
Sam startled out of his slumber when said bundle was unceremoniously dumped on his lap not five minutes later, with the following instruction:  
  
"Okay, now _you_ take care of it.”  
  
Which was a mistake, Dean came to realize. By the time he got ready to bring the kitten back to Cas the following morning, Sam was not only convinced that the beast had been a gift and that it was meant to stay, but he’d also managed to get over the fact that it wasn’t a puppy and had gone and fallen in love with it—or, as he insisted, _her_.  
  
Separating them would be an act of barbaric cruelty. Surely Dean wouldn’t do that to Sam’s fragile, convalescent heart, would he?  
  
Dean, who hadn’t ever been able to say no to his brother, especially not when Sam looked at him like that, threw his hands in the air and gave up.  
  
So here he was, living with a cat. Fortunately it was a female, which made his allergies act up a lot less than they did when confronted to one of the toms roaming the Knight property. Besides, the bunker was big, and the kitten clever: she’d rapidly understood that a certain amount of rooms—especially Dean’s bedroom and the kitchen—were off-limits and she was somehow _respecting_ these boundaries. And she knew by now that Sam was the way to go if she wanted anything, be it cuddles, food or making a nuisance of herself.  
  
Dean could live with that—and a little bit more sneezing.

 

— — —

 

Cain is impressed when Dean brings Cas back to the house, all better and calmer and having recovered his taste for coffee and other things in life. Dean can tell. He can’t help but preen a bit—internally. He isn’t suicidal.  
  
Still, the reevaluating look on Cain’s face while Dean waits for Cas to be finished with his long, warm shower…  
  
That’s kinda sweet.


	26. Chapter 26

Dean has a problem.  
  
He has a date with Cas—well, no, not a date. He—they never said ‘date’. They’re just meeting up to go see a movie, a freaking _animated movie_ , because that’s what Cas wants to see.  
  
Cas is weird. But Dean likes him. So what if he hopes the movie will be followed by some kissing or even, maybe, hopefully, by some making out? That doesn’t necessarily make it a date or even—  
  
Anyway.  
  
The problem at hand is: he has to meet Cas in half an hour, and Sam is lying on the couch with a wet cloth on his forehead, cheeks flushed with the fever he’s trying to bring down.  
  
So Dean hesitates. Sure, he wants to go out for once, with Cas even, but at the same time he can’t—  
  
Sam, of course, perceives his torment.  
  
"If you even think of canceling," he announces, raising a threatening finger without taking off the cloth covering his eyes. "I’m going to stand up and kick your ass out myself. And you’ll be the one to clean up when I hurl all over the floor."  
  
Dean thinks it’s a big threat to make over what, as far as Sam knows, is nothing but a casual meet-up with a guy whom Dean met and who might become a friend, if they’re lucky. But it’s a threat all the same, one which Dean isn’t keen on seeing becoming a reality.  
  
So he submits to Sam’s most wise opinion and leaves.

 

— — —

 

When he comes back much much later—lips still red and buzzing and grinning—Sam’s still on the couch, although now he’s sprawled on his front. His hair’s a mess, his clothes are wrinkled. He’s asleep. And drooling on the cushion his head is resting on.  
  
At one point or another, the cloth cooling his forehead has slipped to the floor. Dean picks it up—it’s still damp—and checks Sam’s temperature by pressing the back of his hand on Sam’s forehead. The fever has broken, which explains the deep, quiet sleep Sam has fallen into.  
  
Reassured, Dean puts the cloth and basin of water onto the coffee table. After that he goes fetch a blanket, which he throws over his brother’s gigantic frame, carefully tucking him in.  
  
And, with a smile on his face, he goes to sleep.


	27. Chapter 27

They met—it was the dumbest cliché.  
  
She was starting as a nurse at the hospital and he came frequently to visit his mother, who had been placed in the recovery wing to hide the fact that she would never actually completely recover. Meg was assigned to the woman’s room, among others.  
  
So yes, that’s how they met.  
  
How that segued into them doing more than briefly crossing paths in Mrs. Knight’s room, into Castiel dropping by the nurse station or the break room or the small patch of grass behind the hospital where she retreated to smoke on a stressful day, she couldn’t say.  
  
Maybe one day she hadn’t been doing so well, and he’d taken notice, had come check up on her afterwards.  
  
Maybe it was the nickname she’d given him at one point, because his real one was a cluster of unpronouncability and she couldn’t be bothered.  
  
(She could, but the small grin that had graced his lips when she’d first called him Clarence had pushed her to do it again, and again, and again.)  
  
Maybe it was because he’d wrongly, naively assumed that the winks, the mean teasing she spewed towards most people were the real thing, were some sort of _flirting_.  
  
(It was. She was acerbic, not blind. It was just that usually people knew not to take it seriously, or to take it as the warning it was. Usually it didn’t _work_.  
  
But Castiel had never been ‘usual’.)  
  
Maybe it was because she’d never set him straight on that matter, had let him be drawn closer like a moth to the flame—because she wasn’t like him, she wasn’t good, she wasn’t stupid when it came to people (he wasn’t either) and she’d never hesitate to put someone within harm’s way if it meant that she could get something out of it. And Castiel had a lot—too much—to give.  
  
After a while, after they’d met a few times outside the hospital, she realized that he genuinely thought that they had a thing. That they were _dating_.  
  
And that was that.

 

— — —

 

His family, unsurprisingly, didn’t like her.  
  
His father was reasonably wary of her, probably thought that he was threatening enough, but he wasn’t. Meg had seen him with his wife, had glimpsed what he badly hid under that gruff exterior. She wasn’t afraid of him. She knew that above all he respected his son, his son’s choices, and would let him do as he wanted—and thus would let her too.  
  
His mother… Well, Meg had to hand it to her: she tried. She smiled to cover her hesitation and worry, she shared a couple of stories about her son, she asked questions to get to know Meg better. Meg didn’t smile back, pretended to only humor her by distractedly listening (she still remembered every word), refused to answer. Things were awkward, after that. Meg asked to be assigned another room. As the hospital was aware of her developing… acquaintance with the patient’s son, the board most graciously delivered in the name of professional integrity.  
  
The worst was his sister—a small uppity thing on the way to becoming a hotshot doctor in the big city, looking down at Meg like she was dirt at the bottom of her shoe. She didn’t bother to hide her distrustful glares, made sure that any and all of their interactions were strained, so that Meg could never doubt for a second that Missus Didn’t Approve.  
  
Yet she didn’t do anything to actively break Meg and Castiel up. When push came to shove she wasn’t any more dangerous than her parents. In the end they all left Castiel free to make his own decisions, even though they were bad ones. They all left him open to be torn apart.  
  
Some family they were.

 

— — —

 

The thing was, though: Castiel wasn’t as defenseless as he first appeared. He wasn’t as stupid, as naive, as clueless either.  
  
It didn’t take her long to realize it and, with it, that she might be in too deep.  
  
He saw right through her.  
  
It was like this: when people asked why she’d become a nurse of all things, when she was so far from being a caring or nurturing person, Meg had a series of answer at the ready.  
  
She’d done terrible things in the past and figured that it was as good a way as any to try and restore the balance so that she didn’t end up burning in Hell.  
  
She hadn’t known what to do with her life and the hospital was the only institution willing to take her, because they were so desperate for staff that they took on _anyone_ , really.  
  
She had a morbid fascination for decay and secretly delighted in watching people suffer and die.  
  
And so on.  
  
Castiel heard them all at one point or another—not because he’d asked, but because she felt the need to wave them in his face, so that when she hurt him or broke him he couldn’t complain that he hadn’t been warned. He heard them, listened to them even, but on his lips, in his eyes, there was always a knowing smile, almost fond, almost _amused_ , a smile that didn’t buy it. A smile that made her aware that he _knew_.  
  
He knew that she didn’t in fact hate her job; that she avoided having children assigned to her because she couldn’t bear to see their small frames rattle under a cough; that she was always upset, deep down, when one of her patients bit it, even when it was a newcomer who didn’t make it through the first night.  
  
No matter what she said or did, he knew. She might snarl or rage at him, he always just took it—or, no, rather, he _never_ took it, never personally, just let it roll off his back, shaking off her darts without them finding any purchase on him.  
  
It was frustrating. It was fascinating.  
  
She hated it.

 

— — —

 

She hated flowers too.  
  
It didn’t prevent him from offering some to her, several times.  
  
To clarify: she didn’t have anything against flowers themselves. To be honest she was rather indifferent towards them, didn’t really get what the fuss over their shapes and colors and perfume was about. Once cut they wilted so fast. What was that, if not useless waste?  
  
But Castiel offered her flowers and weirdly—stupidly—the gesture, the attention touched her.  
  
It made something falter and swell and _move_ inside her. And she didn’t know what to do with it, with that unfamiliar feeling brushing so close—too close—to her core, _or_ with that stupid bunch of dying plants that she wasn’t allowed to take to work and for which she didn’t have a vase at home. Like everything that affected her, it made her feel helpless and vulnerable. She couldn’t even make it stop, or smother it. And she hated that.  
  
So yeah, she hated flowers.

 

— — —

 

He had that way of looking at her, like her barbs and insults were nothing but scratches from a wall of poisoned thorns surrounding her self like a fortress. And he was used to being scratched, torn, stung, by his nettles and rose bushes, by his bloody cats and his bees. In his eyes they didn’t mean anything by it; they were only protecting themselves, fighting for survival.  
  
He thought that she was like them. That if he was careful and patient enough the thorns would part and let him through, let him see what hid inside, let him touch it and cradle it in his arms and cherish it.  
  
But that would never happen. She wouldn’t let it. Because she knew herself, knew that what he might find there was nothing like the pure, flawless jewel he was probably expecting. She knew that at her core she was just as mean and poisonous and small as she was on the outside.  
  
He wouldn’t see it that way, of course. Good as he was, he only ever saw the same reflected in others, only ever considered the bad as an afterthought, a shadow lurking in a corner but never affecting the whole.  
  
He looked at her knowingly, searchingly, watching out for that good in her that wasn’t there for him to find.  
  
More than once she kissed him, then, just to make him stop. When she did that, when she swept him away with her lips, with her hands, with her whole body, when she didn’t leave him the time to think or breathe, she was in control again. She could keep him distracted. She could pretend that this was all there was to them, nothing but a transaction in which she was shamelessly taking advantage, taking what she needed, what she wanted and discarding the rest—all this without giving anything in return.  
  
Castiel had so much to give. A lot of it was love. But she didn’t want his love.  
  
It was easy, then.

 

— — —

 

The worst was, sometimes, she almost believed him, believed with him.  
  
Under his gaze she felt beautiful; faced with the smile she’d brought to his lips she felt like she could be a decent person.  
  
(Maybe, one day. She had to be at least _able_ to become one, if someone like Castiel thought so.)  
  
But then they parted ways for the day and once alone she always came back down to earth and realized just how much she was fooling herself.  
  
It wasn’t easy, then.

 

— — —

 

(Once or twice, in the quiet of her innermost thoughts, she admitted it to herself:  
  
She did want his love.  
  
And he already had hers in return.  
  
That was the whole problem, really.)

 

— — —

 

In the end, she couldn’t bear it.  
  
She applied for a transfer.  
  
"I’m leaving," she abruptly announced, one week before she was due to go.  
  
He stared at her for the longest time.  
  
"Oh," he let out, something like heartbreak in his voice, in his eyes, until he lowered them and added: "Okay."  
  
And that was that.

 

— — —

 

(By then she didn’t even know what it was that she couldn’t bear. What it was she was so terrified of.  
  
The fact that he’d slipped under her skin, that no matter what she did she couldn’t get rid of it, of him, of what he made her feel and God, she hated feeling, she hated what she felt when it came to him.  
  
The fact that soon he’d see her for what she really was and maybe find her wanting, maybe turn away from her.  
  
The fact that maybe he wouldn’t. That he’d still love her, would stand by her despite everything and keep letting her lash out at him, spread her corrosive bile all over him, over his good heart, until it shriveled or hardened or broke, until he ended up as damaged, as corrupted, as petty and mean as she was.  
  
She was so tired of it, of being afraid. She just wanted it to stop.  
  
So she left.)

 

— — —

 

It happened very quickly, very simply.  
  
He let her go.  
  
She clung to the anger she felt at that.  
  
That once again he’d made her feel bad, by _not_ getting angry himself, by being the bloody bigger person _again_ , by respecting her choice even as it hurt him.  
  
That he hadn’t tried to hold her back.  
  
That he hadn’t even asked _why_.

 

— — —

 

After that—he’ll never know—she came back, from time to time. Never at the hospital, but she knew where to find him even outside of it.  
  
At first it was to make sure that he was okay, that her departure hadn’t, that _she_ hadn’t—  
  
Then it was for another kind of reassurance. Because it was reassuring, in a way, it was a constant in her life, knowing that whatever happened, on a Sunday he’d always be there, at the market, at his stall always set up in the same way, on the same spot, and that all she had to do was drive for a couple of hours to see him, selling his honey, his candles and his sweets.  
  
She never let him see her, came during rush hour when the crowd was thick or towards the end, when everyone was tired and getting ready to leave.  
  
It calmed her to know that he was there, that she hadn’t broken him, that he still remained, unchanged—and probably would remain so, forever.  
  
But—

 

— — —

 

But one day she comes—it’s been months since the last time—and she doesn’t find him.  
  
It’s late on a cold morning in January. Her breath billows up in white clouds, frost still clings to the grass in hollows and shadows. Everyone is starting to pack up. The booth is there, with its honey, its candles and its sweets. But Castiel isn’t.  
  
In his place Meg sees a stranger, a tall man with a ratty woolen hat on his head, reddish scruff on his cheeks and a jacket that looks far too thin to be worn outside at that time of the year, although underneath it she can see a thick sweater, the collar of a flannel shirt.  
  
Meg stands here and stares at him, wrong-footed, frozen, uncomprehending—  
  
But then Castiel is there, hopping out of his old truck, wrapped in his old, ugly raincoat but also bundled in even uglier gloves and scarf and hat, woolen items striped yellow and black. They make him look like a child but he wears them with the happy pride reserved to a beloved present. Meg breathes out, reassured.  
  
As she watches the stranger reaches out and roughly tugs down Castiel’s hat so that it covers both his ears. Castiel grins, looks up, their gazes meet.  
  
They don’t need to do anything else. They don’t need to linger or stand closer or touch; the familiarity and affection in their movements, the rough care in the man’s gestures, the look in Castiel’s eyes tell it all. It’s obvious.  
  
It’s blinding.  
  
In the following minutes they take the booth apart. Castiel carries away the leftover produce, the till, the wooden board serving as a display table, while the other man disassembles the metal frame. His naked fingers redden at the icy contact and afterwards Castiel cradles them in his hands, rubs at them and blows on them to warm them. The man lets him, a smile on his lips, relaxed, uncaring for who might see in spite of where they are.  
  
And as they stand there, close, hands joined and talking quietly to each other, Meg watches and feels…  
  
She feels loss.  
  
She realizes that, even though she left, she never entirely let go. That she might have fled but that, deep down, a part of her meant to come back, maybe, one day, when she was better, when she was ready. That she grew complacent, though, let months, years slide by without making any real effort to improve, because another part of her was convinced that she’d never change and that he wouldn’t either, that he’d always be there, always the same, living his simple, isolated, lonely life. Almost waiting for her to come back.  
  
But things don’t work that way.  
  
Castiel recovered from her leaving. Castiel—always strong, always smart, always practical and down-to-earth underneath his appearance of dreamer always out of step—found someone else, someone who wants the same things as he does, someone _better_ , probably. Castiel moved on.  
  
The two men have parted, closed the truck and driven off, together, Castiel smiling in the passenger seat.  
  
Meg still stands here.  
  
It takes her a while to shake herself and go back to her car.  
  
Castiel moved on.  
  
Maybe it’s time she does too.


	28. Chapter 28

Dean squints at himself in the rearview mirror, ruffling his hair then smoothing them to the side, wincing and ruffling them again—  
  
He freezes when he notices Cas, who’s looking at him from the passenger seat, entirely nonplussed. He feels himself flush.  
  
"What?" he defensively asks.  
  
"Your hair is shorter than mine," Cas points out.  
  
"Yes, and?" Dean growls. He looks away, feels ridiculous.  
  
He tenses further when Cas sighs, prompting Cas to wrap a reassuring arm around his shoulders.  
  
"Dean," he says. "It’s just my mother."  
  
Dean snorts.  
  
"And you’ve met my father already."  
  
"Yeah, _exactly_ ,” Dean blurts.  
  
A short silence follows.  
  
"I told you, he _likes_ you,” Cas says, patient and reasonable. “He’ll just never show it.”  
  
Dean remains skeptical. “ _Right_.”  
  
"And my mother will like you too, I’m sure of it."  
  
Dean finally manages to glance back at him, to meet his eye and see his encouraging smile. He seems so certain. How can he be so certain? Dean is… He is…  
  
"Come on," Cas says, like he can see Dean’s thoughts spiraling downwards and refuses to let them. He drops a kiss on Dean’s jaw. "She’s waiting."  
  
He climbs out of the car, the flowers he was carrying on his lap cradled in his arms. Dean closes his eyes and huffs out a long breath, trying to calm his stupid nerves.  
  
He opens the car door and follows Cas outside.

 

— — —

 

Across the parking lot, through the front doors, up a flight of stairs and down several corridors they go. The hospital feels like a maze but Castiel takes every turn confidently, the floor plan as familiar to him as the one of his own house. He greets the staff by name, even some of the patients, and finally they reach a room—  
  
Colette is sitting up in bed, back resting against a couple of pillows, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, reading. She looks up when Castiel enters the room and her whole face brightens, opens into the most beautiful smile. She closes her book and puts it on her lap to return her son’s embrace, followed by a kiss on the cheek. After that she receives her flowers.  
  
Castiel sits down on the chair at her bedside while she admires them and clears his throat, suddenly shy.  
  
"Mom," he starts and that’s when Colette notices the poor schmuck awkwardly standing in the doorway.  
  
From the way she freezes then smiles, Dean guesses two things: one, Cas is a big fat liar, because he totally didn’t tell her he was bringing his bo— Dean today; but two, it doesn’t really matter, because she knows who he is at once.  
  
"Dean," she says and reaches out a hand, implicitly inviting him in. He steps into the room to shake it. Her wrist, the frailty of it, reminds him of Sam in the earliest stages of his recovery—bones delicate as a bird’s, wrapped in the thinnest layer of flesh and skin, a fine structure that looks like it’ll break if he’s not careful.  
  
He’s very careful.  
  
"I’m so glad to finally meet you," Colette goes on. Now that he’s closer the curve of her smile looks familiar, looks a lot like Cas’, and automatically makes him feel more at ease.  
  
"Same here, ma’am," he replies. "It’s a pleasure."  
  
Well, at least he managed to avoid the idiotic ‘it’s an honor’—although he felt it on the tip of his tongue, because he knows how important Colette is to Cas, like Mary is to him. Thirty years she’s been in and out of the hospital, and Cas still goes to see her twice a week at the very least.  
  
He desperately wants her to like him, because what if she doesn’t?  
  
"Handsome _and_ polite,” she says, a teasing, yet approving glint in her eyes. “Now come here, sit.” She gestures at the second chair, indicating that he should bring it closer to sit on the other side of her bed.  
  
Dean obeys with a smile, slightly reassured, starting to believe that Cas was right: it’ll all be okay.


	29. Chapter 29

Dean has changed the channel by the time Castiel comes back from the kitchen, prompting Castiel to ask:  
  
"What’s on?"  
  
Even though five seconds would’ve been enough for him to find out, since the answer is: “News.”  
  
Castiel sits down, handing Dean one of the two bottles of beer he went to fetch, and tunes in right on time to hear the speaker say:  
  
"—in favor of same-sex marriage, which makes it the thirty-sixth government to legalize it state-wide. It wasn’t the first this year, though, which only confirms the current acceleration of the movement towards equal rights for homosexuals and prompts the question: is nation-wide legalization of same-sex marriage a possibility for the near future?"  
  
Before the journalist can even turn to the specialist she means to interview on the subject, Dean lets out a loud, skeptical snort.  
  
"What?" Castiel asks, turning slightly to face him. "You don’t think that’ll happen?"  
  
"What, and you do?" Dean replies. "Come on! Gay marriage, allowed all over Kansas? Or, even better, in Texas? Yeah, no." He shakes his head. "No way."  
  
"It is true that the opposition is strong, _and_ loud,” Castiel concedes. “But the federal government could make a decision and implement it in the whole country.”  
  
“ _Right_. ‘Cause they have nothing better to do. And because the Democrats are 100% percent guaranteed to win the next elections.”  
  
"Social reforms _are_ important and an essential part of any candidate’s platform,” Castiel points out. “And I have no doubt that legislation on that matter will be regularized the same in all of the US at one point or another.”  
  
Dean purses his lips, dubious, but then his mouth curves into a smirk. “Wanna bet?”  
  
Which is how most conversations about politics—or anything close to it—that Castiel tries to have with him gets inevitably derailed. Castiel rolls his eyes, exasperated and fond at the same time, but decides to play along.  
  
"Okay," he says. "Let’s. I believe that same-sex marriage will eventually be legal in all fifty states. If I’m right, what do I get?"  
  
"If you’re right, well," Dean says slowly and takes a sip of his beer.  
  
He’s stalling, Castiel realizes. Suddenly he’s not looking at him anymore, avoiding his eye even. And then he says:  
  
"Then I’ll marry you. How’s that for a prize?"  
  
The attempt at levity falls flat. Dean is staring at his beer bottle, gripped so tight that his knuckles have turned white. His shoulders are tense, the back of his neck red.  
  
Castiel’s amused smile has faded entirely, replaced by a dumbfounded look—eyes wide, lips parted. He clears his throat.  
  
"But what if I lose?" he asks, voice small, because the alternative…  
  
Dean finally glances over at him. His expression softens when he sees the apprehension on Castiel’s face.  
  
"Then I’ll have to keep living in sin for the rest of my days. And every single one of them will be a big fat fuck you to anyone who has a problem with it," he says, lips stretching into a grin, which falters at once when he asks, almost shyly: "Okay?"  
  
Castiel can feel his whole face bloom into a smile. His wildly beating heart makes him feel almost dizzy when he replies: “Okay.”

 

— — —

 

He’s still grinning the next morning, humming while he prepares some toast and puts it on a tray beside a couple of steaming coffee cups and two glasses of orange juice.  
  
His father is staring at him over the local newspaper, disturbed and wary at his son’s cheerfulness, profoundly unusual that early in the morning.  
  
"If your boyfriend insists on staying the night half the week, the least he could do is come down to help with breakfast," he snarks. Because of course he noticed that the Impala is still parked right outside and that Castiel is preparing breakfast for two. Or maybe he drew the right conclusion from the huge mess that is Castiel’s hair, or from the large hickey he hasn’t bothered to hide.  
  
"Actually," Castiel says as he finishes smearing honey on the last buttered toast and closes the jar with a small flourish. "He’s my fiancé."  
  
Cain nearly lets his cup drop. The expression on his face—  
  
Castiel picks up the tray and flees the kitchen before he breaks and openly snickers.  
  
Dean was right: it was entirely worth it.


	30. Chapter 30

Exhausted, Castiel has collapsed on the couch and he doesn’t feel like moving. It’s been a long day. Besides, Winnie the Cat is now sprawled over his lap and it would be a pity to disturb him.  
  
He catches a movement out of the corner of his eye—it’s his father, bringing him a steaming cup of herbal tea. Castiel takes it gratefully and breathes in the soothing smell as Cain sits down in the armchair.  
  
"Everything went okay?" he asks.  
  
"Yes," Castiel replies. "Although I don’t know why I’m surprised that Sam took so many books with him. And bought so many shelves as a consequence."  
  
He winces. You would think that working at the farm would’ve made him better prepared for such efforts, and yet… He could already feel cramps stiffening his shoulders, his arms.  
  
He stifles a whine, regretting that Dean isn’t here to commiserate and offer one of his divine massages. Castiel would return the favor, of course, and then he would—  
  
"What about you?" he asks before his thoughts can wander too much. "Was everything okay despite—"  
  
"It was fine," Cain replies at once, a little bit testily, as always. Castiel is never sure if he’s so touchy because he doesn’t like the insinuation that he’s not still perfectly capable of taking care of the farm on his own or because he knows that Castiel always feels guilty whenever he spends a whole day away and he doesn’t like it.  
  
Probably both.  
  
Several minutes go by, the silence only broken by the regular ticking of the kitchen clock and by the gentle purr of the cat, whom Castiel softly, slowly scratches behind the ears.  
  
"Dad," he says when he finishes his tea. He takes a fortifying breath. "I want to ask Dean to move in here, with us." He doesn’t dare look up, stares at his cup with his shoulders slightly hunched. "I don’t like the thought of him living alone, buried in his grandfather’s house."  
  
The silence that follows prolongs itself so much that in the end, Castiel is forced to look up.  
  
"Dad," he repeats, a bit pleadingly, a bit warningly. Now’s not the time for Cain’s antics.  
  
"What?" his father says. "You told me, I heard, it’s noted. I won’t be surprised when he’s still sticking around after three days and when that monstrosity of a car becomes a permanent fixture in our yard."  
  
Castiel presses his lips together. “This is me, asking for your permission,” he says, because apparently that wasn’t clear.  
  
Cain quirks his eyebrows at him. “Yeah, and this is me telling you there is no need.”  
  
Castiel blinks.  
  
"This is your house as much as mine," Cain says. "And it’s not like the boy isn’t here half the time already. And you’re engaged, even. Sort of." The way he says it, it’s clear he’s still deeply unimpressed by how Dean and Castiel went about that. "Besides," he adds musingly, taking a sip of his tea. "Having a son-in-law underfoot on the premises will undoubtedly have its perks."  
  
His eyes narrow as he starts thinking of all the ways in which he’ll be able to exploit Dean and his wish to please in the future. Castiel lets out a short sigh, faintly relieved, and leaves him to it. He focuses back on Winnie, whom he’s been neglecting for the biggest part of that conversation.  
  
He’ll have to make him and his peers understand that the house has become off-limits, if Dean agrees to live here.  
  
But before that, he still needs to ask the man himself. Somehow.


	31. Chapter 31

She doesn’t know what to expect, doesn’t think she is expecting anything. Only she must be, because when she meets him… Well.  
  
He is not what she expected.  
  
That’s it, he _isn’t_ —the way their mother talks about him, the way their father is unwaveringly reserved on the subject, but not darkly so, the way Castiel himself breathes and smiles and hums, she thought… She expected…  
  
She doesn’t even know. Someone more similar to Castiel, maybe, probably, someone who shares his quiet, his measured approach to everything, his respect for the world surrounding him.  
  
Dean Winchester is none of that. He is loud, excessive, full of swagger, he’s brash and careless and rude and—  
  
She doesn’t understand.

 

— — —

 

She shares her confusion and worries with her mother, her father.  
  
Colette just smiles, tells her that she only needs to take the time to get to know him better. That she only needs to really look, really listen.  
  
Cain just quirks his eyebrows. “Be honest,” he softly admonishes. “Even if he didn’t have all these faults, you’d find him lacking. You’d find anyone lacking.”  
  
Hannah is reluctant to take her mother’s advice, and vexed to hear the truth in her father’s words.

 

— — —

 

(She makes the mistake of sharing her confusion and worries with Castiel too.  
  
His reaction is a stark reminder of how stubborn her brother can be, underneath his unassuming exterior.  
  
He’s always done what he wants to do, after all. No one could ever persuade him otherwise.)

 

— — —

 

It’s evening, and Castiel has a date. Even if Hannah hasn’t been explicitly told, she knows. There’s expectation hanging in the air; Castiel stopped his work early to go take a shower, and now she can hear him hum all the way downstairs while he gets dressed.  
  
The phone rings.  
  
It’s the landline, because Castiel only ever turns on his cellphone when he leaves the house for any length of time and Cain will never abide to modern technology.  
  
Hannah doesn’t look up from her medical journal at once, intent on finishing her paragraph. By the time she puts it down and stands up, Castiel’s already skipped down the stairs to answer.  
  
She watches him as he greets whoever’s on the other line, notices how closely he shaved himself, how simple but neat his outfit is—dark slacks, white shirt, no tie—, how he smiles when he hears who’s on the other end of the line and says: “Hello, Dean.”  
  
The smile doesn’t stay, though. It soon fades with a soft exhalation (“Oh.”), to be replaced by concerned folds on his brow as Cas adds: “Yes. Yes, of course, I understand.”  
  
"Date cancelled?" Hannah risks once the call is over, since Castiel’s still standing there, staring down at the handset.  
  
"Yes," he replies curtly, finally hanging up. He turns away and heads to the kitchen, where their father is sitting, shelling peas.  
  
He looks up when they enter the room, but Hannah’s the one to ask: “What happened?”  
  
"Sam is coming down with something," Castiel replies, voice muffled as he digs through the freezer to come out with a container full of frozen chicken soup. "Dean has to stay home to look after him."  
  
Hannah searches through her memories and remembers that Sam is Dean’s younger brother, with whom he is currently living. She crosses her arms over her chest, indignant on her own brother’s behalf.  
  
"What, and that’s it?" she scoffs, incredulous. "What kind of an excuse is that to cancel a date right before it happens?" Castiel doesn’t answer, only pushing the freezer door shut with his foot, so she goes on: "Sam is an adult, he can take care of himself. There is no way Dean really has to—"  
  
Castiel doesn’t slam the homemade soup onto the table, but still puts it down firmly enough that Hannah stops talking, taken aback. The glare he sends her way tells her that his patience has run out.  
  
Yes, sharing her doubts about Dean with him was definitely a mistake, especially since she tried to explain them, tried to make Castiel understand, to convince him they were founded. He’s still holding a grudge on his boyfriend’s behalf.  
  
She’s surprised by how protective of the man Castiel is.  
  
"Yes, of course," Castiel says through gritted teeth. "Do tell me what Dean has and doesn’t have to do for his brother, whom he’s looking after while Sam slowly and uncertainly recovers from a serious, nearly lethal illness that reduced his immune to smithereens. I’m all ears."  
  
It’s the tone of his voice and the unusualness of seeing him actually angry, more than the actual words, that keeps her silent at first. But then their meaning register and she feels slightly shamed for judging without knowing all the particulars.  
  
"Now if you’ll excuse me," Castiel adds, putting the soup in an eco bag which he slings over his shoulder. "I’m going to see how my boyfriend’s holding up, if my friend is okay, and if I can be of any help. I’ll see you in the morning."  
  
His voice softens at the last words, which are mostly addressed to their father. Cain nods back and, once Castiel has left the room, glances back at Hannah, an obvious ‘what did you expect?’.  
  
What did she expect indeed.

 

— — —

 

Castiel comes to her in the morning to apologize for his outburst. Since she knows she was also partly in the wrong Hannah accepts it, and asks for news about Sam.  
  
He’s stable, Castiel tells her. The doctor came and went, stating that there was no need for an hospitalization. Not that Sam’s state at the time had been that worrying—he’d regained consciousness and stopped throwing up, even kept down the water they gave him to try and rehydrate—, but after what had (nearly) happened during the worst of his illness Dean was understandably liable to jump the gun.  
  
She’s reassured, even though Sam’s a complete stranger to her.  
  
But hearing this about Dean, about his care for his brother, which seems to come before anything else, makes her understand some things a little bit better—her mother’s fond smiles, her father’s approving silence, Castiel’s protective touchiness. She still doesn’t understand _everything_ , doesn’t understand the man or how he wormed his way into her brother’s heart.  
  
She’s willing to try, though.


	32. Chapter 32

_Christmas Shenanigans (pt. 1)_

Time flies.  
  
It feels like it was only yesterday that Castiel came back from the market one loaf of gingerbread short and yet it appears he and Dean have known each other, have been together for long enough to start making plans. Ambitious plans, because as a Knight Castiel is nothing if not enterprising.  
  
It’s about Christmas. And resolving the problem created by the fact that the two idiots want to spend the holiday together this year but that, at the same time, neither of them wants to give up on celebrating it with their families.  
  
The solution they come up with is simple in appearance: gather both families in question under the same roof for the occasion. Dean guarantees that his deceased grandfather’s place has more than enough room. Cain has doubts. He’s proven wrong.  
  
What business did a single old man have living alone in such a large cave, he wonders.  
  
(Hoarding, he learns. Sam—sometimes helped by Dean—has spent the last year digging, sorting through the stuff, trying to decide what to throw away, what to give away, what to keep, tidying or emptying room after room and he still isn’t finished. What the Hell.)  
  
Colette’s expression melts when she hears the news. Cain lets her coo for a good fifteen minutes, clinging to a tight-lipped silence meant to imply skepticism and irritation at the prospect of being surrounded by so many strangers on a family holiday. He certainly doesn’t share her opinion that Castiel and Dean’s project is kind of sweet.  
  
(She isn’t fooled, of course.)

 

— — —

 

The realization of the plan of course turns into an utter mess, because unsurprisingly everyone ends up arriving on the same day while nothing is quite ready yet.  
  
In the end it goes like this: Cain and Castiel drive up to the so-called “bunker” (why anyone thought that it would be a good idea to celebrate Christmas in an atomic shelter, Cain gave up on asking) early in the morning, bringing a pine tree from the ever growing cluster at the corner of their property. They help set it up in the main room. Afterwards Sam stays behind while Cain leaves again in his truck and Castiel and Dean drive away in the Impala. In the following hours, Cain fetches Colette at the hospital, Sam welcomes his own girlfriend who drove in from Topeka and Castiel drops Dean in Lawrence before continuing to the airport where his sister will be waiting. Dean goes grocery shopping for Christmas dinner with his mother and they drive back to Lebanon in her car. They make it there barely half an hour before Castiel, Hannah and her husband Joe arrive.  
  
A lot of introductions follow. Cain learns that Sam’s girlfriend is named Jessica. He also learns that Mary Campbell is nothing like her ex-husband, much to his relief.  
  
(His one condition when he agreed to that whole shebang was that John Winchester would not be among the guests. He did _not_ want that man anywhere near his Colette.)  
  
Castiel leads Hannah and Joe to what will be their room so they can put down their bags. When they come back, the decorations for the tree (half of them belonging to the Knights, the other half to the Winchesters-Campbells) have been unpacked. With the nine of them the branches are covered in tinsel and baubles in a matter of minutes.  
  
The leftover decorations are hanged or placed here and there around the room while Dean retreats to the kitchen, only taking Castiel and, on her firm insistence, Jessica with him. Sam is explicitly banned. He and his mother are thus left to entertain the guests. Fortunately the younger Winchester turns out to know a lot of things about a lot of topics, some of which are among Hannah’s interests. Mary and Colette huddle close to one another, apparently getting on marvelously. Cain and Joe are left to the side, quite happy to share their own little bubble of quiet while they drink and watch their loved ones chatter.  
  
(Cain likes Joe. He’s calm and accepting, he treats Cain’s daughter right and, most of all, he is a man of few words. They have an understanding. A silent one.)  
  
There is dinner—nothing too elaborate since it’s not Christmas Eve yet—, the dishes get done—by Mary, Hannah and Joe since Sam’s still banned from the kitchen—, followed by some more conversation before one by one people retire for the night.  
  
Colette is half asleep by the time Cain pushes her wheelchair into their assigned room, helps her sit on the bed and change into her night clothes. Afterwards she takes his hands in hers and murmurs: “Theirs was the best idea, wasn’t it?”  
  
She’s smiling and in that second looks so happy that Cain doesn’t find it in himself to keep up the act. He presses his forehead against hers and admits:  
  
"Yes, it was."


	33. Chapter 33

_Christmas Shenanigans (pt. 2)_

It’s the following day, after the small Apocalypse that were the preparations of Christmas Eve dinner—but that, against all hopes, ended happily and a little more than tipsily.  
  
Sam is the one to ask the question:  
  
"Say," he starts, one arm slung around Jess’ shoulders, face split into a wide grin, cheeks almost comically flushed. "I get that you’n Cas met at the farmers’ market, but how did you guys end up together?"  
  
All other conversations quiet down at once, since everyone is curious to hear the answer.  
  
(Except Cain, of course. He simply wasn’t talking in the first place.)  
  
Dean and Castiel look at each other. And… keep looking at each other.  
  
After a while Dean starts frowning. Castiel starts squinting.  
  
The silence is growing heavy.  
  
"Erm," Dean finally says.  
  
"I’m not sure—" Castiel starts, only to interrupt himself.  
  
Dean nods in agreement. “Yeah, I don’t think—” He shrugs.  
  
"There was the market—" Castiel says, opting for going back to the beginning.  
  
"—and that time when your car died."  
  
"It didn’t die," Castiel counters primly. This is clearly a most rehashed bone of contention between them. If you can call that ‘contention’. Which you can’t: Castiel isn’t even frowning. "The engine just needed to cool off a bit."  
  
"Yeah, right, that’s what we call dying," Dean snorts. "Good thing I was driving by and helped—"  
  
"—and I thanked you for that—"  
  
"—and there was more market afterwards—"  
  
"—and then—"  
  
Except, Castiel stops there.  
  
"And then," Dean repeats, like Castiel just made perfect sense.  
  
He probably did, to him. From the looks of it they’ve entirely forgotten that they have an audience. They’re holding hands, smiling softly at each other, lost in their own bubble.  
  
Apparently, that’s all the answer said audience is going to get.


	34. Chapter 34

_Christmas Shenanigans (pt. 3)_

"I had a brother once, too."  
  
It’s only when Mary turns her head towards him that Cain realizes he just spoke out loud.  
  
He blinks. He has no idea why—  
  
He’s standing near the bookshelves, because he wanted to take a closer look at the scimitar displayed on the smallest one, and Mary is beside him because she was explaining its origins to him. As her tale came to a close, he turned and saw Dean and Sam. They’re on the couch, fighting over the last piece of honey candy—although in their definitely drunk state it looks more like a lot of uncoordinated flailing often interrupted by bouts of helpless, braying laughter. And for some reason—  
  
"What was his name?" Mary asks gently.  
  
Cain gives a humorless smile. “Abel.”  
  
Her eyebrows twitch but she doesn’t comment on the loaded choice of names. Which is a good thing. Cain doesn’t want to get into how much of a conceited asshole his father could be and was when he decided to name his children, ignoring his wife’s protests.  
  
Sometimes Cain wonders what would’ve happened if Abel had been born a girl.  
  
"Who was the oldest?" Mary asks with a smile, tactfully avoiding the usual question of: what happened?  
  
(What happened is that their father had a temper, and Cain was a little rebellious shit who, at eighteen, thought that he knew better, but clearly was stupid enough to think it was a good idea to go at it while the man was driving with the whole family in the car.)  
  
"I was, of course," he replies. "Abel was two years younger."  
  
"Closer in age than Dean and Sam, then," she says and Cain nods.  
  
(Although it doesn’t make things any different. Cain was the older brother, and as such should’ve thought of Abel, of how to spare him, of how to keep him safe, instead of provoking the old man again and again and again, until he went too far at the worst time possible.)  
  
"Were you close?" Mary asks, almost timidly, uncertain if she’s allowed to pry that way.  
  
"Yes," Cain manages to reply.  
  
He realizes he’s rubbing his right forearm, near the elbow, where, underneath the shirtsleeve, a scar lies—the only trace of the single laughable wound he got in the crash, aside from a brief bout of unconsciousness.  
  
(His mother and his father didn’t even make it to the hospital alive. Abel went into a coma—and despite the help of their grandparents on their mother’s side, despite the hours he spent poring over papers and calculations, despite all the interviews he had with various banks for a loan that he didn’t get, Cain soon realized he couldn’t afford to keep him on life support.  
  
He was the one to sign the document allowing the hospital to unplug Abel. The doctors told him that it was the sensible decision, told him that there had been very little chance that Abel would’ve woken up.  
  
Cain can’t help but wonder, though. If he’d waited just a little bit longer…)  
  
"Excuse me," he says, and leaves Mary’s side, leaves the conversation, leaves the room.  
  
It’s been a long time since he last spoke about Abel. Even after all this time, doing so is… painful.  
  
He finds the nearest bathroom, splashes water onto his face without turning on the light. He stays there for a long time, hands braced on the sides of the bowl, avoiding his own eyes in the mirror.  
  
When he comes back out Colette is waiting for him in the corridor—probably brought here by Castiel, on her request. She gives him a smile, full of care and understanding. He takes the hand she reaches out to him, lets her tug him closer, obediently leans down so she can run her other hand down his face, hold him still while she lays a kiss on his forehead. It lingers and he closes his eyes, slowly breathes out.  
  
She squeezes his hand when he straightens, prompting him to meet her gaze. She doesn’t need to ask what happened, if he is okay. He manages a small smile.  
  
"Let’s go back," he suggests after a long shared silence, during which she looks at him attentively, her thumb repetitively brushing against the inside of his wrist.  
  
She doesn’t ask if he’s sure, trusting. “Okay,” she says, squeezing his hand before she lets go, so he can seize both handles of her chair.  
  
Mary’s eyes dart towards him as soon as they enter the room, then down to Colette. Whatever expression she sees on her face makes her relax, reassured. Cain realizes she was worried that she’d pried too far, and nods at her when their gazes briefly meet again.  
  
Dean and Sam, now reconciled, are loudly trying to set up some sort of game at one of the tables. Knowing that Colette will want to participate, Cain turns her chair in that direction.  
  
He’s entirely unsurprised when he ends up sitting between his son and daughter, who are over-caring idiots. Colette is barely smothering a grin.  
  
Cain wouldn’t trade them for the world.  
  
He still trounces them and everyone else around the table. Dean and Sam foolishly settled on a card game and Cain has to keep them all on their toes, after all.


	35. Chapter 35

"I’m here to see my son."  
  
This is apparently all that John Winchester has to say when Cain opens the door. Barely a greeting, no phone call to announce his visit, he just barges in onto the Knight property like he owns the place, with little to no care about the possibility that his son might have other things to do right now—or, more likely, expecting him to let it all drop just because a visit from his father surely counts as an occasion.  
  
Cain feels a vindictive kind of satisfaction when he replies: “That won’t be possible.”  
  
No greeting either, no ‘sorry’ (he’s really not). Not even an explanation, a statement about how Dean isn’t even here right now, because Cain doesn’t see why _he_ should be the one to fill John in on his own son’s whereabouts and occupations. It’s John’s fault that he doesn’t know.  
  
(It’s Sunday morning. Everyone in the family who properly cares knows by now that Dean’ll be with Castiel, at the market.)  
  
John’s face has darkened.  
  
"You can’t prevent me from seeing my son," he growls.  
  
Cain keeps silent, which he knows is the surest way to infuriate the man. _Watch me_.  
  
John squares his shoulders, a calculating look in his eyes—trying to determine if he could shoulder his way past Cain. Cain doesn’t move, doesn’t bother straightening up. He just quirks an eyebrow in a silent _I wouldn’t if I were you_.  
  
John Winchester is a massive man, taller than Dean and younger than Cain. He’s a mechanic. But it’s obvious that by now at least half his workday is spent behind a desk, leaving the toughest cases to younger workers, and that he spends a lot of his free time sitting on a couch, watching TV and drinking beer. Cain on the other hand still does half the work around here. He never lets a whole day go by without working on the farm and is not the kind to sit around idle if he isn’t. When John arrived he was chopping wood behind the house.  
  
(… Maybe he should’ve brought the axe with him when he went to open the door.)  
  
What it boils down to is this: despite being leaner, all long bones and thin, corded muscles, Cain is more than able to stand his own against a Winchester, especially if he puts his mind to it. Fortunately, John realizes that.  
  
"I have to talk to him," he says emphatically.  
  
"Tough," Cain retorts, wondering what can be so important that it couldn’t be said over the phone.  
  
At the same time, given how little the man calls, or even returns Dean’s attempts to reach him, Cain’s starting to doubt that he knows how to use such a device.  
  
"He isn’t here," he finally reveals, a concession.  
  
"Yeah, right," John huffs, skeptical.  
  
Cain shrugs. “He isn’t.”  
  
"The Impala is _right_ here,” John snaps with an angry gesture.  
  
"So he didn’t take her," Cain says, although he can see the man’s point. Dean’s attachment to that vehicle is near worrying—but Castiel accepts it, just like Dean accepts Castiel’s love for his bees, which sometimes leads him to having lengthy conversations with them about their health or the nectar of flowers, conversations that, to anyone else, sound entirely one-sided. Dean never questioned it, or even looked at Castiel funny for that. The least Cain can do in return is tolerate that black monstrosity’s presence.  
  
John breathes out furiously. “I don’t have time for this,” he mutters, before bellowing: “Dean! Dean Winchester, you come out right this instant.”  
  
Like Dean’s nothing but a disobedient child, instead of a man nearing forty. Cain seethes, a bit.  
  
But Dean isn’t here and the only reply John gets is the panicked flapping of bird wings as a dove, a jay and two magpies fly away in fright. Cain savors the silence that ensues.  
  
"Like I said," he says once it has gone on for over a minute. "He isn’t here."  
  
John glares at him.  
  
"This isn’t over," he says even as he takes a step back. "I’ll be back."  
  
Cain only quirks his eyebrow higher. John turns away, climbs back into his car—even larger and more hideous than the Impala—and finally drives away.  
  
Cain waits until the rumble of the engine has faded entirely before he closes the door and goes back to his task.  
  
The wood gets chopped with renewed vigor after that.

 

— — —

 

Cas’ father is in a weird mood when they come back. He’s viciously chopping wood, looking grim and fiercely victorious at the same time.  
  
From the look of things he hasn’t eaten, so Dean prepares enough food for three when he throws together a quick lunch, while Cas packs away the jars they didn’t sell today. After that Cas goes fetch his father, who looks surprised that they thought of him and who, when he sits down and gets served, says: “Thank you, Dean.”  
  
Dean freezes, flummoxed. He’s pretty sure Cain never thanked him for anything before, or talked to him in such a… nice tone.  
  
"Erm, you’re welcome?" he says, a bit freaked, and proceeds to have a brief, frantic conversation with Cas in a mere exchange of glances. It ends with Cas asking:  
  
"How was your morning, dad?"  
  
"Well, I made a lot more progress that I thought with the chopping board," Cain replies. "So it was good."  
  
His words are followed by a pointed look stating that he is no fool and knows perfectly what they were aiming at with that question.  
  
Cas, reckless idiot that he is—or, more likely, perfectly aware of his immunity when faced with his father—chooses another angle of attack: “There were fresh tire marks on the road, did you have a visitor?”  
  
"Yes," Cain says.  
  
"Who?" Dean asks—and kicks himself at once, and a second time when Cain’s eyes swivel towards him. There is a saying about curiosity and cats. Dean’s pretty sure it’ll apply to him one day soon.  
  
But not today, apparently. Cain takes a pull of his beer, watching him, considering, but in the end he replies: “No one you should concern yourself with.”  
  
Later, Dean and Cas will speculate about it. Dean will wager it was probably someone coming to talk about money, an idea that Cas will reject, arguing that he’d know if his father were having financial problems. He’ll suggest that it might have been one of their neighbors, coming to nitpick about the placement of a fence or complaining about a tree which, in their opinion, should be felled because it dares overshadow a corner of their garden or field. He knows for a fact that such visits always put Cain in a murderous mood.  
  
But for now they drop the matter. After all, it doesn’t prevent Cain from openly enjoying his meal.  
  
It was probably nothing.


	36. Chapter 36

Sitting in the living-room of her childhood home with her mother always feels a bit strange to Hannah. The years which Colette has spent at the hospital mean that her memories have to reach a long way back to find a time when such a situation was a common occurrence and not a special occasion. And it always makes the gap of years, the differences between the little girl she was and the woman she is now stand out all the more starkly.  
  
She wonders if it’s the same for Castiel—Cas—, who has never left home. She’s never been able to say from his behavior, as it barely changes when she is here and their mother is allowed a visit. In such moments he simply glows with joy and care, but nothing more—and recently that glow has become a constant shine, not because Colette is allowed longer stays, but because Cas has found someone else to dote on.  
  
Hannah and Colette can see them now, Cas and Dean, moving around in the kitchen as they bake a cake for Cain’s birthday. The man of the hour is, of course, nowhere to be found. Not that it’s a problem: someone—probably Cas—will hunt him down in whichever part of the garden he retreated to when he’ll be needed. The cake has to be ready before that.  
  
The dough—homemade—gets spooned into the mold and put in the oven. All that’s left is to wait.  
  
Instead of returning to the living-room, Cas and Dean sit back down at a corner of the table, scraping the leftover mix off the bowl. Well, Cas scrapes. Dean’s too busy gesturing with his little spoon, loudly expanding on how pie is better than cake and deserves a spot among appropriate birthday pastries—until Cas cuts him off by sticking his own spoon right into his mouth.  
  
Dean lets out a strangled, but not displeased sound.  
  
"Good, right?" Cas grins smugly.  
  
Dean licks the spoon clean and says: “Not bad.”  
  
And he takes advantage of Cas’ mock-outrage to snatch the bowl from him and turn away, thus putting it effectively out of Cas’ reach.  
  
Children. They are children.  
  
Colette chuckles, probably thinking the same thing but being amused by it instead of dismayed.  
  
"Your brother sure has a type, doesn’t he?" she says.  
  
Hannah frowns, confused. In the kitchen, Dean is still keeping Cas at bay with his elbow, a grin on his face that’s teasing but in no way mean. She wonders what Colette sees, what prompted her to say—  
  
Dean couldn’t be more different than Meg—the only other person Cas has been in a relationship with, as far as Hannah is aware. Dean is tall and broad where Meg was small and round. He has light hair and eyes but skin that tans after years spent on the road, in the sun, covers itself in freckles at the first hint of spring; she had dark hair and darker eyes, but skin pale as marble and about as likely to show any emotion, to blush or blanch. He smiles where she only smirked. He’s brash and crude but—Hannah can admit it—a genuinely good, caring person underneath, while Meg _wasn’t_ , she was horrible, to everyone but mostly to Cas, and didn’t ever try to hide it.  
  
Hannah can understand what Cas sees in Dean, now, can understand why he loves him even. She never understood what he was doing with Meg.  
  
"I don’t see—" she says, unsettled. But Colette only shrugs and smiles.  
  
At the table the fight has ceased. Cas’ attempts to recover the bowl—which is now sitting on the table, forgotten—dragged his chair closer to Dean’s, inch by inch, and now he’s leaning against Dean’s back, one arm braced around Dean’s waist, cheek resting on his shoulder-blade. His eyes are closed, his nose buried in Dean’s shirt like it’s the warmest, most comfortable pillow he’s ever had. And Dean lets him, leaning back and clasping Cas’ wrist in a loose hold, watching the oven’s timer count down the minutes till the cake is done.

 

— — —

 

Dean has put on weight.  
  
Not exceedingly, but enough for it to be visible—and suddenly Charlie feels ashamed and awkward that this is the first thing she notices about him after months of not seeing each other.  
  
By then he’s enveloped her in one of his warm, all-encompassing hugs, which she returns more enthusiastically than usual in consequence. He probably puts it down to her having missed him—she _has_. When he steps back, he’s grinning.  
  
They enter the diner, find a table and have to order before they can finally turn to each other and start talking.  
  
"So, how’ve you been?" she asks, since they have to start _somewhere_.  
  
"Oh, I’m good. I’m really good." He looks it too. He’s leaning back in his chair, relaxed, well-rested, his complexion healthy, with color on his cheeks and a slight tan even though the weather is still shaking off the last traces of winter. It’s a long way from the strung-out, anxious mess he was back in May the previous year, when she dropped by his and Sam’s new home to set up their wifi and Sam was just out of the hospital.  
  
"I can see that," she says. "I gather Sam’s better too?"  
  
She already knows about the progress of his recovery thanks to the emails she and Dean have exchanged, but it never hurts to check.  
  
Dean’s grin grows positively gleeful. “Oh, he’s more than that. He’s taken up with Jess again.”  
  
"… Jess?" The name doesn’t ring a bell.  
  
"Yes, Jess!" Dean insists, like it should be obvious. "His college girlfriend!"  
  
"The good one?" She remembers faintly Dean grumbling about how Sam had made the biggest mistake of his life by letting ‘that girl’ go, especially for _Ruby_ , of all people, can you believe it—and Charlie guesses Dean isn’t talking about the latter.  
  
"Yeah! He’s at hers right now, watching _Game of Thrones_.”  
  
"She lives here in Topeka?"  
  
"Yes," Dean replies, reveling in the word.  
  
"Oh, I _see_.”  
  
They smirk at each other, but have to tame it down when the waitress brings their order.  
  
"So everything’s good in Winchester land when it comes to romance," Charlie says, picking up the conversation whereas Dean dives on his burger with all the appetite a three hours drive always has given him. He’s so distracted he doesn’t notice the attack until it’s too late: "Speaking of, how’s Cas?"  
  
Dean pauses, looks up, interprets her gaze right and starts chewing again—an obvious attempt at stalling, since Charlie knows from experience that he’s never had any qualms about talking with his mouth full.  
  
"He’s good," he says once he’s swallowed, and takes another bite at once.  
  
"Come on, Winchester," Charlie protests, stabbing a ketchup-smeared fry in his direction. "Give me more. I let the lack of info in your emails pass because I know you’re a stumbling ewok when it comes to computers, but now you have no excuse, so spill."  
  
Dean throws her a look, all the while obnoxiously chewing like only he knows how. “What about you?” he counters instead of answering. “How are thing with, what was her name? Glenda?”  
  
“ _Gilda_. And I told you already, it was just a nice, short-timed fling between two consenting adults who were both very clear about that fact. Nothing new since then. Don’t try to change the topic.” She purses her lips. “I thought you’d be all over talking about Cas. From what you wrote, he seems nice. And dreamy.”  
  
She timed that last remark right: Dean swallows as she finishes speaking. He can’t hold back a small smile and a: “Well, he is.”  
  
And, under Charlie’s unbelieving eyes, he _blushes_.  
  
She whistles. “And _you_ are whipped,” she concludes.  
  
"Shut up," Dean grunts, looking away, but he knows there’ll be no escape.  
  
"Detail, now," Charlie orders. When Dean throws her a glare, she adds: "It’s that or I drive all the way to his farm next weekend to see for myself. So talk."  
  
Dean isn’t stupid: he complies.

 

— — —

 

After they’re done with their burgers, Dean briefly interrupts his monologue about how great Cas is with his bees, his garden, his trees, his _everything_ , to order a slice of cherry pie.  
  
Clearly he is—as he puts it himself—living the life.

 

— — —

 

Dean has collapsed on the bed, sprawled on his back, tired and full. It’s a holiday, which means he’s eaten far too much. Again.  
  
But then there was _apple pie_. Baked by his _mom_. He couldn’t say no to that, even after a copious meal, could he?  
  
Eyes closed, he smiles at the taste still lingering on his tongue—and at the feel of Cas against him, a comfortable weight and warmth where he’s slotted himself into Dean’s side. His nose is brushing against Dean’s shoulder, his left hand running soothingly over Dean’s stomach. It feels very nice—and not even in a sexual way. The idea has crossed Dean’s mind, of course—it always does when Cas is so near—but hasn’t taken hold, due to the numerous people currently present in the house, including his mom and, worse, _Cas_ ' mom. Besides, moving sounds far too ambitious right now.  
  
He’s definitely eaten too much.  
  
"You enjoyed your meal," Cas murmurs when Dean shares the thought with him. "Which was very flattering for the cook."  
  
"Except the cook’s _me_ ,” Dean snorts. “And, okay, you. But I think it had more to do with you giving me second helpings of everything without even asking.”  
  
"We had prepared a lot, and I don’t like waste."  
  
"Bullshit," Dean mumbles, because really, they could’ve put the leftovers in a box in the fridge, no problem. "You just like fattening me up."  
  
"Maybe," Cas grins—Dean can feel it against his shoulder. "You enjoy good food." He bumps his nose against Dean’s skin. "I like giving you things you enjoy."  
  
Dean squirms a bit. Cas’ open affection tends to have that effect. “And you’ll still like me when I’m round as a barrel?” he asks, trying to diffuse the situation.  
  
The hum he gets in return sounds suspiciously like a laugh. Cas’ breath comes to tickle his neck, making him shift, and Cas tightens his hold in reaction, scoots closer. He drops a kiss on Dean’s shoulder.  
  
"You’re fucking weird, you know that?" Dean says, but the words come out a bit high, a bit breathless, because Cas is now rubbing his belly with more intent, slowly circling lower and lower—and now Dean is suddenly but quite seriously rethinking his previous stance on sex here and now.  
  
"You like me being weird," Cas whispers in his ear.  
  
"I do. God only knows why, but— _OW_.”  
  
His smart-ass comment earned him to be pinched at the waist—making him feel glad that he’s been growing some padding down there as of late. He pouts and frowns, which Cas ignores in order to throw a leg over his to straddle him, thus effectively distracting him from his dismay.  
  
"You like me," Cas repeats, earnest in a way that dissuades Dean from contradicting him, even as a joke. "And I like you," he goes on, clasping Dean’s waist between his hands. "All of you."  
  
He bends down to kiss him.  
  
"Yeah?" Dean mumbles against his lips.  
  
"Yes," Cas says, trailing kisses along his jaw until he reaches his ear and adds: "Let me show you?"  
  
Dean grins and closes his eyes. “‘kay.”  
  
Sometimes he definitely is a lucky bastard.  
  
(The other people trying to sleep nearby less so, but who cares.)


	37. Chapter 37

When he and Sam first moved into the bunker, Dean was a bit confused by the layout of the place. Everything was on the same floor, room upon room connected by countless corridors, as if the architect had been so frustrated that he hadn’t been hired to build an actual maze that he’d done all he could to make the sort-of house look or at least feel like one.  
  
It was the first time Dean lived somewhere where the living-room didn’t connect directly to the kitchen, for instance. Which make going to fetch a beer in the middle of a movie that much more bothersome.  
  
Then he discovered the advantages of being able to get food and coffee in a morning without running into Sam, who for some reason favored the living-room couch over his own bed and the large tables over the desk Dean had bought and set up specially for him. Sam was an ingrate. And he had prying eyes. Which meant Dean was all too happy to have the means to avoid him when needed—especially when he’d had company overnight, if you see what he means.  
  
But this is how Dean can shuffle to the kitchen that morning, make some coffee and pour himself a cup without his presence being noticed. That is, until he decides to make a detour by the living-room on his way back to bed to see if Sam’s up—and finds someone there who’s definitely _not_ Sam.  
  
It’s a small guy, a kid really, who’s pulling one of the heavy volumes from the top of one of the bookshelves. When he sees Dean he freezes and throws his hands up in the air with a small cry. The book, deprived of all support, slides all the way out of its spot and thumps down to the ground where it slams open, its thick old pages crackling in agony.  
  
"This is not what it looks like," the boy says, voice shrill and wavering.  
  
What it looks like is an Asian hobbit trying out his burglar skills in Dean’s living-room—which sounds dubious because as far as Dean knows they’re not in Middle Earth and, hey, do Asian hobbits even exist there, anyway?  
  
Try as he might, Dean can’t remember anything about possible hobbits living far away from the Shire. He feels betrayed. J. R. R. Tolkien failed him. Such a lack of information about the inhabitants of the eastern parts of Middle Earth is just plain wrong. What a disappointment.  
  
He blinks back to reality, where the wannabe hobbit is still standing, stiff and terrified.  
  
"And what’s it look like?" he asks, taking a step forward.  
  
The boy hunches his shoulders with a stifled whimper and okay, Dean knows he looks disgruntled because he’s not all the way awake yet, but _come on_. He can’t be that scary. He’s in nothing but an old grey robe and boxers, his hair’s a mess… He doesn’t even have slippers on, for God’s sake.  
  
But apparently he is, because the boy rattles: “I’m not here to steal anything, I swear.” He’s still holding both his hands up in the air. “Sam let me in.”  
  
Sam’s not anywhere near, but Dean’s muddled brain stirs with a half-memory of him announcing that someone would come over in the morning to work on… something. Nerd stuff, probably.  
  
"You’re that kid from college he’s been in contact with," Dean concludes.  
  
"Yes!" the boy says, and drops a hand to reach it out to shake. "I’m Kevin Tra—"  
  
His attempt at introducing himself ends in a squeak as he catches sight of something behind Dean, then abruptly averts his eyes. His hand snaps back up.  
  
"Dean?"  
  
Dean doesn’t need to turn to know who’s just stumbled into the doorway to the living-room, or in which state. The mortified blush spreading over Kevin’s face is more than enough to guess.  
  
"Yeah, you might want to close your robe, Cas," he says. When he turns around Cas is looking down at himself, noticing for the first time he’s not wearing anything under the unbound garment.  
  
"Oh," he says and wraps it shut, clumsily knotting the belt around his waist. When he looks back up, he narrows his eyes. "You weren’t in bed."  
  
It sounds half-way between forlorn and accusing. Dean, who knows how much Cas hates waking up alone when he doesn’t expect it, raises his cup in explanation.  
  
"Coffee."  
  
Cas’ eyes zero in on the drink. “Oh,” he says again, before turning around and disappearing down the corridor. He’s making a bee-line for the coffee machine, no doubt.  
  
Dean briefly turns back towards the kid, who’s _still_ holding his hands up in the air, which must be starting to hurt. “Don’t break anything,” he instructs.  
  
The boy’s eyes dart down to the book splayed open on the floor like the victim of a sacrifice and he ducks at once to carefully pick it up, check whether the fall tore anything or not.  
  
Dean leaves him to it, guessing that Sam’ll probably come back soon, and follows Cas to the kitchen, already cooking up a series of dumb arguments to tempt him back to bed.  
  
It never takes much for that to succeed, fortunately.


	38. Chapter 38

"So I’m thinking of going back to school."  
  
At Sam’s words Dean, who’s been watching far too many Vines as of late—Charlie’s fault—replies in an ominous voice: “Story time: once again, Sammy unsurprisingly gave in to his book addiction.”  
  
He doesn’t even look up from the book he is reading. Clearly _A Dance with Dragons_ is too riveting a work for him to notice the irony.  
  
Sam rolls his eyes. “Dean, I’m being serious.”  
  
The tone of his voice has the intended effect: Dean finally glances up, eyebrows raised.  
  
"I’ve been in contact with the university of Missouri and all is set for me to start in the fall."  
  
"So you’re not thinking about it, you’re actually doing it," Dean says, face unreadable, as he closes his book.  
  
Sam tenses. “Don’t look at me like that.”  
  
"It would’ve been nice to get a heads-up is all," Dean retorts, sitting up and dumping his book on the coffee table.  
  
"Don’t talk like that either."  
  
Dean crosses his arms. “I talk like I want.”  
  
"You _know_ why I didn’t tell you,” Sam says with a glare.  
  
"Oh yeah?" Dean goads, jutting his chin out. "Why’s that?"  
  
"Because you would never have agreed to it, that’s why. You think it’s too early."  
  
"It _is_.”  
  
"Except that’s for _me_ to decide.”  
  
"Yeah, because that turned out so well the first time around," Dean scoffs. "And actually, I’m pretty sure the doctors have a pretty big say in this too."  
  
"And what they say is that I’m well on my way to complete recovery."  
  
"Which isn’t the same as in a good enough shape to start working again," Dean points out.  
  
"Dean, I can’t just— I need to do _something_. I have to start making plans, to start preparing for the rest of my life.”  
  
"You and your damn _plans_ ,” Dean mutters. “From where I’m standing, you’re already doing plenty of stuff.” He gestures at the table closest to the bookshelves, where Sam’s study spot is. Piles of books and manuscripts surround his laptop, which he uses to put everything on a register.  
  
"Well, yes. But you know we can’t keep all that crap here," Sam says quietly. "I want to give it to KU’s library, they’re interested even, but I want to be the one to add it to their collection, to put what I can online. And I need a degree for that."  
  
"You already got one."  
  
"Don’t play dumb, you know that’s not the same," Sam almost snaps. "I need a masters of library science or something. Look," he goes on, leaning forward in an attempt to catch Dean’s eye. "I know you think I’ll overdo it again. But I won’t, I promise. It’s not the same. I don’t have a scholarship I need perfect results to keep, and the diploma itself is less demanding. Most classes are online. I know what I’m doing. You know what I’m doing, with the classes you’ve been taking.”  
  
"That’s just a couple of classes, not a whole freaking degree," Dean counters.  
  
"Yeah, and you know as well as I do that it’d be a waste not to take more and not to make them count for something," Sam scolds, before he raises his hands placatingly. "But that’s for you to decide. Just like it’s for me to decide what to do, and I want to go. I want to be there. And…"  
  
"And?" Dean prompts when Sam trails off.  
  
"And I want to be closer to Jess."  
  
Dean’s expression clears. “Oh, so that’s the actual reason,” he says. “I get it, if I was in your place I’d want to be closer to her too, if you see what I mean.” He waggles his eyebrows so that Sam can’t misinterpret anything.  
  
Sam grimaces and swats at him, but the armchair he’s sitting in is too far away from the couch for that to be effective. “Ew, I don’t need that picture in my mind, you jerk, that’s not—” He pauses. “Wait,” he says. “You’re not mad.”  
  
"Oh, I am mad," Dean retorts. "But that’s because you went and applied and got accepted without telling me a damn thing. _Again_.”  
  
Sam flinches and lowers his eyes, feeling a bit guilty. Dean sighs and goes on before he can say he’s sorry:  
  
"But for the rest… Look, I do think it’s too early, but I’m deciding to trust you, ‘kay? And I trust your doctors. I mean, they got you that far. You’re getting better, and if you think you’re well enough for school, then okay, you’re well enough for school. As long as your doctors agree."  
  
"They do."  
  
Dean nods. “Okay. Good. Now all I ask is that you don’t jump right back into 80 hours weeks. And if you do, remember that you won’t be on the other side of the country and that mom will kick you ass.”  
  
Sam huffs. “Yeah, right.”  
  
"Oh, she will," Dean insists. "You know she will."  
  
"Yeah," Sam says. "I know."

 

— — —

 

"So Sam’s thinking about going back to school."  
  
Castiel looks away from the TV he isn’t really watching anyways. “Yeah?”  
  
Dean is looking down at his beer bottle, fiddling with the label. “Yeah, at the university of Missouri. There’s a spot waiting for him there already, all nice and cosy.”  
  
"Oh. So he’ll be moving to Kansas City?"  
  
"Nah, he’s planning on going back to Lawrence," Dean says, putting the bottle onto the coffee table. "He has some sort of agreement with the library at KU, he’ll put in some hours to help bring in grandpa’s collection, that’ll make him some money to pay his fees."  
  
"That’s great," Castiel says—but his smile fades when something occurs to him. "What about you?"  
  
Dean glances at him. “What about me?”  
  
"Are you—" He has to swallow as his throat tightens. "Will you be moving back with him?"  
  
He has to force the words out, feels worry, no, panic at the idea, the prospect of Dean just… leaving. Moving away.  
  
He’s aware that Lawrence isn’t that far, he and Dean have done the journey there and back often enough, but—  
  
But.  
  
He realizes he’s seized Dean’s hand between both of his when Dean turns it to interlace their fingers.  
  
"Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that," he says, and words clog in Castiel’s throat, springing up with the impulse to cut him off, to tell him _no, don’t think about that, don’t_ —  
  
It’s so sudden and so strong he’s taken aback, confused, because in all the years he’s lived, in all the partings he’s experienced, he’s never felt like that, never felt that fear, that reflex, that need to hold tight onto someone, to hold someone back.  
  
He bites back every word, but can’t help but scoot closer, shoulders taut as a bowstring as he listens to Dean’s next words.  
  
"I mean, I’ve been thinking about taking more classes, trying to get an actual degree, you know? And I can’t do that only with online classes, I guess, so I’d have to… I mean, I’m sure I could work something out, like go there two days a week or something."  
  
Castiel feels frozen. He has to try twice before he manages to ask: “But the rest of the time, you’d be…?”  
  
"Well, here," Dean says, like it’s obvious. He glances up at Castiel and whatever he sees on his face makes him frown, add uncertainly: "I think. Why?"  
  
"I just… wondered," Castiel says, averting his eyes.  
  
He knows without looking that Dean’s frown deepens. “Cas, you okay?”  
  
"Yes," he replies at once, even though he can’t bring himself to meet Dean’s gaze. He fiddles with his fingers instead. "Yes. It’s just…" His voice falters. "Lawrence is your home."  
  
"It is," Dean says slowly. "I mean, my mom’s there." He shifts and Castiel squeezes his hand on reflex, afraid of having to let go. "But I— I’m good here."  
  
"You are?"  
  
This time Dean ducks his head until he catches his eye and holds it as he earnestly declares: “I am. Of course I am, you know that.” He brings their joined hands closer to his chest. “I mean, _you're_ here.”  
  
Castiel lets out a small sound.  
  
"And we’re kind of engaged, if you remember well," Dean goes on with a crooked smile.  
  
Castiel lets out a breath as relief spreads through him. His shoulders relax minutely. “Yes. We are.” He has to make sure though. “So you’re… you’re staying.”  
  
"Looks like it," Dean says. "If that’s okay with you."  
  
Castiel hears the sliver of uncertainty in his tone and replies at once: “It is.”  
  
One of his hands comes up to Dean’s cheek. He’s sitting so close to him by now that he barely needs to lean forward for their noses to brush together. “Of course it is,” he murmurs before sealing their mouths together, overwhelmed with gratefulness.  
  
Dean parts his lips at once, returns the kiss. His free hand comes to rest on Castiel’s waist, encourages him closer and Castiel lets himself be led. He all but melts against Dean, the icy shreds of his brief terror receding against the warmth pouring from Dean’s lips and pooling in his stomach, his groin. He goes willingly when Dean untangles their hands to wrap an arm around his waist and hoist him up against his chest, throws a leg over Dean’s lap to straddle him. They kiss again and again, the last inches of space between them disappearing—and yet it’s not quite enough for Castiel to shake off the last remnants of his fright, hovering at the corner of his mind.  
  
"Dean," he says.  
  
"Yeah?" Dean asks as he finally tugs Castiel’s shirt free from his pants and slips a hand underneath, skin on skin.  
  
"Make love to me," he says. "I want to feel you." He punctuates his words with a roll of his hips, grinding down into Dean’s lap and feeling the hard bulge of his growing erection—and yes, he wants that, in him. _Now_.  
  
Dean chokes, as he often does when Castiel’s that direct about expressing what he wants. “Yeah, yes,” he replies in between kisses, hands tightening against Castiel’s back, into the fabric of his shirt. “‘f course, I— _Bedroom_.”  
  
For some reason Dean’s stuttering makes Castiel laugh, prompting a chuckle from Dean—and following them all the way upstairs.

 

— — —

 

They make their way there and divest themselves of their clothes in record time. Castiel barely has the time to dig through his nightstand before Dean’s on him and snatching the bottle of lube from his hands—although he doesn’t complain.  
  
"Ask me to stay," Dean murmurs later, once he has reduced Castiel to an incoherent mess with his fingers and finally, _finally_ pushes into him. “Tell me to stay.”  
  
"Yes," Castiel pants, eyes fluttering under the onslaught of sensation. "Yes, do. Stay." He tightens his arms around Dean’s shoulders, hitches his leg higher to get him deeper. "Stay with me."  
  
Dean’s hips stutter and he brings up the hand not clasping Castiel’s hip to brush back the hair on his sweaty forehead. He kisses him there, then on his left cheekbone and cheek, on the mouth. “Yeah?”  
  
"Yes," Castiel hisses against Dean’s lips as Dean starts to thrust. "Stay."  
  
"Won’t get tired of me, eh?" Dean asks even as his breath quickens and he bears down on Castiel, presses him into the mattress until there’s nothing else to feel but him, his weight, his skin, his sweat, his warmth, his breath; his everything.  
  
“ _Never_ ,” Castiel replies, fierce and a bit choked, as Dean thrusts in at just right angle and in that second he thinks, he knows, that he’ll never get tired of _this_ either. “Never.”

 

— — —

 

Afterwards he feels too tired to move, his body limp, still reeling from the strength of his orgasm. He feels full of so many things, so many emotions, and at the same time entirely drained. Fortunately Dean doesn’t seem to mind, returns his embrace, his face buried against Castiel’s throat as if he’s not ready to face the world after what they’ve just shared.  
  
Castiel soothingly scratches the hair at the base of his nape. “I love you,” he whispers.  
  
A short silence follows, before Dean mumbles: “Me too.” It come out a bit muffled, a bit strangled, accompanied by a slight squeeze of Dean’s arms. Castiel drops a kiss on the top of his head.  
  
Soon they’ll have to move, clean up, but for now they simply shift a bit, just enough so they can lie together more comfortably for a little while longer, neither of them intending to leave.


	39. Chapter 39

The Knight farm produces several types of honey. It’s quite easy, Cas explained to Dean—who in turn explained it to Sam—: all you have to do is set up a hive near a spot where one type of plant and/or flower grows in majority and harvest the honey as soon as the blooms have wilted, before the bees start going elsewhere to gather.  
  
Since flowering doesn’t happen at the same time for all plants, honey harvest happens several times a year, one for each kind. Which means that _this_ happens several times a year too.  
  
'This' being Dean, despondently lying on the couch, staring forlornly into space even though he'll die before he admits that he's pining. Why?  
  
Because harvesting time means that Cas is Not Available. For several days in a row.  
  
He’s too busy during the day and too tired at night to do anything but go to sleep. It’s not surprising, with all he has to do.  
  
First he and his father go remove the honey supers from the hives—a process that can take a while, especially when they have to drive to far-away properties belonging to other farmers with whom they have an agreement and who allowed them to install some of their bees near their fields. They carefully rid the combs of bee workers, pile up the supers in the truck with a small crane and bring them all back home.  
  
The next step happens in the house’s basement, which extends far beyond the room where they store their vegetables and cans and which is actually a relatively small but state of the art factory, with all the necessary equipment to extract honey. Once said honey has been taken from the combs and is decanting in the barrels, Cas and Cain bring back the supers to their respective hives. Cas takes advantage of the occasion to thoroughly check on them and their inhabitants.  
  
And then remains skimming the honey and pouring it into jars.  
  
Dean, who’s still squeamish around the bees and has little to no idea how to work an extractor, is not allowed to help. He’s allowed to text and call, but Cas rarely answers.  
  
Which leaves him at a loose end—especially since the bar where he fills in from time to time doesn’t need him at all during the day.  
  
"I don’t get it," he says, still lying on the couch, but now frowning at the ceiling.  
  
Sam doesn’t look up from the book he’s reading at the table—trying to determine if it’s supposed to be a 19th century monography on Uzbek mythology or a 19th century work of fiction extrapolating on so-called Uzbek mythology. “What?”  
  
"I mean, I lived more than thirty year before moving here," Dean goes on, like he’s talking to himself. Or like Sam won’t guess that by ‘moving here’ he actually means ‘meeting Cas’. "But I never…" He huffs. "What the hell did I _do_ in my free time?”  
  
Sam gives up on working for the time being. “I don’t know. Listen to music?”  
  
"I know all my tapes by heart," Dean protests, a clear clue as to how bad things are if he’s not even in the mood for classic rock.  
  
"Watch TV and drink beer?"  
  
"Daytime TV is awful."  
  
Sam’s about to mention the Dr. Sexy MD reruns he knows can always be found if you channel-surf long enough, but remembers in time that the show hasn’t been renewed this time, much to Dean’s disappointment. Unwilling to listen to his brother go on another rant about how the television industry is tumbling down the crapper, he says instead:  
  
"Go for a ride?"  
  
"I don’t want to go for a ride if it’s not—" The sentence ends in an vague mumble, but Sam’s pretty sure he catches Cas’ name somewhere in it. It’s confirmed by the faint flush stealing over Dean’s cheeks, the unhappy curve of his mouth.  
  
"Read?"  
  
This earns him a look, because God forbid Dean ever admits he actually likes a good book—even though he’s already finished two books in the _A Song of Ice and Fire_ series Sam got him at Christmas. Piqued, Sam almost blurts the next thing that comes to mind—“Jerk off, then.”—but refrains, because he knows his brother and wouldn’t put it past him to take the suggestion and start unbuckling his belt at once, just to make Sam squeak.  
  
"Make sure I’m okay," is what comes out, in a complete turn-around.  
  
Which wasn’t much better, he realizes at once, if only because the atmosphere suddenly grows heavier. “Yeah,” Dean says quietly. “But you’re better now, ain’tcha?”  
  
"I am," Sam says, and when their eyes briefly meet he hopes Dean sees how grateful he is for that. Then he quips: "Although I could do with some chocolate muffins right now."  
  
The words successfully break the moment. “Make them yourself, bitch,” Dean snorts, crossing his arms. “This ain’t Starbucks.”  
  
"Yeah, I noticed by the quality of the service, jerk," Sam retorts, rolling his eyes, a bit frustrated that even his veiled suggestion that Dean busy himself with baking has failed. "I don’t know, Dean. Maybe what you should do is find an actual job so you don’t have that much free time." He pauses, hesitates. "Or you could start taking those classes you’ve been thinking about."  
  
Dean blinks, tenses and frowns, obviously wondering _How did he_ —  
  
"Usually when don’t want people to know when or why you used their laptop, you close the tabs of the websites you visited," Sam says. "Seriously, I’m not even talking about erasing the browser’s history, here." He eyes his brother, wondering if he’ll get a reaction. He doesn’t. "I guess I can be glad that at least it wasn’t porn this time. But, Dean." Dean throws him a glance. "You never told me you were interested in college."  
  
"It was just a thought," Dean says, shifting uncomfortably.  
  
"Since when?"  
  
Dean doesn’t answer, but his closed-off demeanor gives Sam an inkling. At first he finds it hard to believe, but then it saddens him. Makes him feel guilty, too, for not realizing it earlier.  
  
"Why didn’t you?"  
  
“‘s not like I had a choice,” Dean says, almost snorts. He’s looking away, very intent on not meeting Sam’s gaze. “Come on, you know it’s wasn’t possible, not at the time.”  
  
"Maybe," Sam says, not entirely sure he agrees. He decides to let that conversation wait and to focus on what’s most important here: "But now it is. And you…" He glances at his book. "Did you find anything that caught your interest? Maybe you could enroll for some summer classes, or—"  
  
"Deadline’s already past," Dean cuts him off.  
  
Only Sam doesn’t take this as the dismissal it’s supposed to be. All he hears is that Dean went as far as to check the registration calendar, which is a good step further towards a concrete plan than merely toying with the thought of attending college or browsing the course catalog when he’s bored.  
  
"But it’s still time for fall term," he hints, gauging. "We could see what classes there’ll be then."  
  
He’s met by silence. Fortunately he knows his brother, and knows how to interpret it.  
  
"… I’ll go grab my laptop."

 

— — —

 

And that’s how Dean Winchester enrolled in a couple of online classes for fall 2014.


	40. Chapter 40

Castiel has news—good news. Colette knows as soon as he enters the room, as soon as she sees his face. He’s glowing, in that quiet way of his that goes unnoticed by so many people. Colette sees it, though, sees the irrepressible half-smile on his lips, the faint flush on his cheeks, the spark deep in his eyes. He looks _happy_.  
  
It doesn’t take long for him to tell her why.  
  
"I’m so happy for you," she says afterwards, taking his hand. "Are you going to decide on a date soon?"  
  
Castiel looks to the side, more bashful than she’s ever seen him—even more than when he first told her about Dean. “It’s nothing official yet,” he reminds her. “There is that one condition—”  
  
He glances up right on time to notice the knowing look she throws at him.  
  
"Except that that ‘condition’ might be filled sooner than later," she points out, tilting her head towards the newspaper folded on her bedside table. Written in large print on the front page, the headline claims: _Supreme Court opens cases on same-sex marriage. Ruling could lead to same-sex marriage legal in all 50 states_.  
  
Castiel shifts on his seat, but doesn’t seem surprised. Colette narrows her eyes.  
  
"Is Dean aware of that?" she cautiously asks.  
  
Castiel definitely looks a bit sheepish. “I’m not sure,” he replies. “He doesn’t follow the news that attentively and… he might have been… otherwise distracted when the reporter reminded the audience of just how imminent that change may be.”  
  
"Was he now?" Colette says with a quirk of eyebrows, just to see the blush stealing over her son’s face. She so rarely gets too see him flustered.  
  
"Still, _he_ was the one to propose,” Castiel mumbles, as if he needs her to know that he hasn’t tricked Dean into anything he doesn’t actually want, as if it were possible for her to think that of him.  
  
“ _Kind of_ propose,” she corrects. Under the elation she feels for them both, some part of her is profoundly amused—and impatient to know what her husband has to say about this all.  
  
"He gave me a ring," Castiel primly tells her. Clearly he does not appreciating her diminishing the event.  
  
"He did?" She can’t see any on his finger and, given how things had happened, assumed there wasn’t one.  
  
Castiel nods as he reaches under the collar of his shirt, where she notices a chain for the first time. He gently tugs it free. From it dangles a thick silver ring she remembers seeing on Dean’s hand in the past. She remembers how he toyed with it the first time they met, a nervous tic. It’s old, covered in small scratches, but clearly loved and cared for.  
  
And he gave it to Castiel.  
  
"Dean’s fingers are thicker than mine, so it won’t fit on my hand," Castiel says. "But…"  
  
"But it’s the intention that counts," Colette murmurs.  
  
"Yes," Castiel replies with a smile, while he holds it, cradles it in his palm. "Yes, it is."


	41. Chapter 41

Before Cain became the owner of the farm, it belonged to his grandparents on his mother’s side.  
  
He’d only rarely gone there during his childhood, mostly when his mother wanted to try and sort things out with his father—always unsuccessfully—and wanted to do it away from her children’s eyes and ears. He’d never liked it, unnerved by how remote the place was from even the smallest town, and by the thought of his mother, alone with that man. Abel, on the contrary, had loved it. He’d loved nature and its deceptive quiet that resolved into a symphony of rustles, whispers and songs if you only stopped and listened. He’d marveled at everything, a flower unfolding in the sun, at an insect twirling through the air, at a sprout peeking from the earth.  
  
He’d had a gift for gardening, too, had spent hours with their grandfather, their knees in the dirt, their hands caked with mud, heads crowned in sunlight and back covered in sweat while Cain glumly hovered in the shade of the porch.  
  
Abel had always loathed leaving that house, had always cried, always asked when they’d be back, drawn to the place like a magnet to the north. And Cain had always thought that one day Abel would go back there for good, would build a life there.  
  
But in the end only his ashes returned.  
  
After the accident, after everything, Cain brought them to bury them in the garden, under Abel’s favorite apple tree.  
  
He’d had a plan, then—nothing but the vaguest outline since he’d lost his spot in college and all the money he’d inherited with Abel, but still, a plan. But his grandparents refused to let him go, to leave him alone. They dragged him back kicking and screaming when he tried to make his escape. They made it impossible for him to ignore their existence or forget their presence, they piled tasks to accomplish on him, in the house, in the garden, in the fields, so he didn’t have the time or energy to get lost inside his own head, inside his own thoughts.  
  
They forcefully reminded him that he hadn’t lost everyone or everything and that, as hard as it was to accept, the world kept spinning, and there was work to be done.  
  
He was not happy about it.  
  
He was devastated, he was angry—at the world but most of all at himself.  
  
He was a nightmare to live with during the first months, the first year. To this day he doesn’t know how his grandparents found the strength, the patience, the love, even, to put up with him. And he realizes how little they deserved it, after losing their only daughter and one of their grandsons—their favorite grandson, probably, how little they deserved the anger and the fights, the snarls and the pain.  
  
He’s glad, now, he’s grateful that they had help, that they had someone to support them through this.  
  
Of course, he didn’t think so at the time either.

 

— — —

 

Her last name was Mullen.  
  
She was about Cain’s age, a wisp of a girl, tall, yes, but thin. Her skin was pale in the winter and brown in the summer, her hair smooth and tidy, usually held back by a headband or a barrette. She wore long skirts and a gentle smile. Her hands were nimble, expert at handling a knife to stone cherries and plums, but also more delicate than the lace Cain’s grandmother, Louise, was teaching her to crochet.  
  
Cain’s grandparents had first met her at the market, where she regularly bought their vegetables and fruit. Over the years they’d started to talk, she’d started to help them pack up, to accompany them back home. Now they were friends, and since Louise had stopped coming with her husband on a weekend Miss Mullen—Colette—visited twice a week to see her. She helped around the house, with the dishes, the laundry, the cleaning, helped make jam and cans out of what Cain’s grandfather, Maurice, brought in from the garden. And Cain…  
  
Cain wanted her to stop. He wanted her gone. He was here now, more than enough to take care of house and yard work—he was even starting to picture a future here, a life spent far away from everything and everyone, where he’d honor his little brother’s first and only love and where his own stupidity wouldn’t hurt anyone ever again. He— They didn’t need her. They didn’t need anyone. And they certainly didn’t need anyone’s pity, no matter how hard it tried to disguise itself up as gentleness and sympathy.  
  
She kept coming, though. Apparently she wasn’t deterred by his glares, by his refusal to return her greetings, by his rudeness; by the fact that he obviously avoided her, always stomping out of the room she entered. Apparently she didn’t care.  
  
Or maybe—Cain wondered, sometimes—maybe she didn’t even notice it, notice him.  
  
It only made matters worse, really.

 

— — —

 

"That boy is a piece of work, that’s for certain," Colette muttered with a disapproving curl of her lips after Cain had left the room. He’d come in on his grandfather’s heels and, after having dumped the crate of apples he’d been carrying, had only lingered enough to throw her a pointed glare—which Colette pointedly ignored—before striding right back out. Louise guessed he was headed for the copse of lilac trees, which were being squeezed to death for years by the ivy Cain had now declared a war on.  
  
At least he got rid of a little bit of his anger that way.  
  
Meanwhile, Colette looked closer to irritation than Louise and Maurice had ever seen her in the years they’d had the pleasure of knowing her.  
  
"Although I shouldn’t be surprised," the young woman sniffed, sharply cutting into an apple. "From what you told me, I guess he must be taking after his father, God rest his soul."  
  
Letting her knife clatter to the table, she twisted the apple between her hands to break it in half.  
  
Louise and Maurice exchanged a look over her head. Maurice quirked his eyebrows. Louise smothered a smile.

 

— — —

 

(Neither Louise nor Maurice got to see how things turned out between these two young people: time took Cain’s grandmother away before Cain entirely let go of his anger and wariness, and his grandfather soon followed her.  
  
But if there is an afterlife from which our forebears can watch over us, you can be sure that both of them were profoundly unsurprised.)


	42. Chapter 42

Dean feels weird as he walks down the corridors of the hospital alone, unused to making that trip on his own, instead of with Cas. But Cas and Cain are busy with the bees right now, which puts a wrench in the rotation system they have to make sure Colette doesn’t go too long without seeing family.  
  
Dean offered to fill in, even though he’s unsure if he deserves that title. But Cas took him up at once and Cain didn’t even protest, so he’s decided not to question it too much.  
  
He garners several glances on the way, several smiles, and that might be due to the huge armful of flowers he’s carrying, but he also feels like he’s being recognized—like he was by the receptionist when he asked her to remind him of the room number in case he got lost, and she told him Colette would be happy to see her son-in-law.  
  
What the hell. Dean and Cas aren’t even married. Yet.  
  
Fortunately, most of his awkwardness disappears when he reaches the room and knocks on the doorjamb—if only because of Colette’s smile, all pleased and surprised. She ushers him in and hoists herself up in her bed to kiss him on the cheek when he obediently bends down and to receive the flowers he brought.  
  
"So I have no idea what these are," he says, dragging the chair closer to her bedside to sit down. To him they look more or less like giant wheat ears, only green and with already blooming buds instead of grains. "But Cas told me you had vase for them that was large enough."  
  
He also said these were Colette’s favorite and, from the look on her face, he wasn’t wrong.  
  
"I do," Colette says, smiling down at them, running her fingers along the bright orange petals starting to unfold. In the soft light streaming through the window, with her hair—brown streaked with grey—held back by a barrette, she looks like a painting, like that goddess of fertility in the book Cas showed Dean. "In the cupboard."  
  
Dean jumps back up. He goes check and indeed finds a vase, even higher than a bucket. Perfect. He brings it to the bed and helps Colette put the flowers in it before going to fetch some water.  
  
"Those are gladioli," Colette says, adjusting the stems to her liking while Dean pours. "It’s been years since they managed to make any grow properly."  
  
"Well, there’s some more back at the farm," Dean says with a smile.  
  
He spends the following minutes moving the vase around the room, following Colette’s instructions so that she can properly enjoy the sight of the flowers while allowing them to bathe in sunlight, all the while without bothering the staff coming into the room.  
  
Once they’ve found the perfect spot and he’s sat back down, Colette thanks him profusely, making him duck his head. The soft look around her eyes is eerily similar to that around Cas’ when Dean did something that made him particularly happy.  
  
"So, how are you today?" he asks.  
  
"Today I’m fine," she replies, her smile waning. She seems to hesitate for several seconds and takes his hand in hers. "But," she finally goes on. "I want to be honest with you, Dean. It’s not always the case. Less and less, actually, as of late."  
  
"Oh," Dean lets out. "Do you know why?"  
  
Colette doesn’t shy away from his gaze. “For the same reason I’ve been here for years instead of at home. The illness is just… getting worse.”  
  
Her tone remains light, as if she was gossiping about her floor neighbors instead of talking about— about—  
  
"Does—" Dean has to clear his throat. "Does Cas know? And Cain?"  
  
She squeezes his hand, probably seeing how affected he is. “Of course they know,” she says, almost scolds, like Dean should know better than to doubt. “It’s just one of those things we don’t talk about, because there’s nothing we can do.”  
  
"Really? Nothing, nothing at all?" After all these years, Dean feels like the doctors should’ve found _something_.  
  
"No," Colette replies softly. "There never has been. All that the treatments could and can do is to slow down the process. But from the moment we heard the diagnosis, we knew my health was on a downwards slope. It’s just… becoming steeper, now."  
  
"How steep?" Dean manages to ask.  
  
"The doctors aren’t sure. But it’s okay," she says, smiling like she really thinks it is. Dean has to look away. "It’s what life is. I’ve already been lucky enough to live that long." She cups his cheek in her hand, raising his head to meet his eye. "I was lucky enough to see Castiel meet you. And I know you—" Her expression and voice falter. "You will look after him. Cain too. Won’t you?"  
  
"Of course I will," Dean says, clasping both her hands in his. They feel so small, so frail between his fingers. "You know I will."  
  
"Yes," she says, trusting. "I know."  
  
"I mean, if they let me," he adds with a quirk of his eyebrows, his lips, hoping to add a bit of levity.  
  
Her smile widens, amused, because she knows her husband and his stubbornness, knows how his relationship with Dean works and will keep working.  
  
"Thank you," she says after a couple seconds of silence, squeezing his hands once more. She blinks rapidly, once, twice, to dispel the tears he’s seen come to her eyes. She breathes out. "But I forget my manners and didn’t ask: how are _you_?”  
  
Dean recognizes the change of topic for what it is and straightens up, although her keeps one of her hands in his. “I’m good. I’m getting closer to perfecting my receipt for gingerbread. The last one I did was almost right.”  
  
"Almost?"  
  
Dean shakes his head. “Something’s still missing. I think it could be fluffier, and it needs something to add a bit of a tang, of spice in the aftertaste. It’s too bitter right now.”  
  
"Mh," she says, gaze growing thoughtful. "What did you use this time?"  
  
They spend the next half hour going through the steps of the recipe and brainstorming for ideas.


	43. Chapter 43

"What a _dick_ ,” Dean says once Cas’ neighbor—some small, mean old little guy named Marv—has climbed into the crappy truck Dean will never offer to repair and driven away.  
  
Cas only lets out an irritated sigh as he turns around. He doesn’t head back to the house, though, where Dean was—poorly—helping him stick the farm’s label onto the latest batch of honey jars. Instead he heads towards the shed.  
  
Once there he takes out the longest ladder, the cart, but it’s only when he unhooks one of the saws that Dean realizes what he’s doing.  
  
"Wait, you’re gonna do as he says _right now_?”  
  
"Why not?" Cas grunts, adding another saw, a small axe and a pair of shears into the cart. A couple of repurposed scrapers follow, as well as several thick, large bags and a couple of buckets.  
  
"Because you were kind of in the middle of something?" Dean says, although he takes the ladder when Cas hands it to him without protest and follows when he starts pulling the cart towards the eastern edge of the property. "The tree won’t move and invade his house overnight."  
  
"Its branches have already grown past the fence," Cas points out.  
  
"Yeah so?" Dean counters. "Come on, a little bit of shade can’t be that much of a bother that you have to take it away right now. Plus you’re a beekeeper, not a woodsman. It’d probably be better if you hired someone—"  
  
Cas cuts him off: “It would take days, maybe weeks. However petty his reasons were, one thing is true: we have been putting off the trimming of the tree.”  
  
"And you can keep doing it!" Dean protests. "You have more important things to do right now, there’s nothing he can do about it."  
  
Cas rolls his eyes. “Yes he can. He can file a complaint—and I have no doubt he will, especially after today.”  
  
"So the guy’s a dick and you’ll _maybe_ pay a fine. So what?”  
  
At that Cas stops and whirls around, now properly angry. “I know it might not look like it,” he growls. “But we’re not rolling in money, Dean. We keep losing hives because of the pesticides most people use, and we may manage to pay for my mother’s hospital bills thanks to our health insurance, but we certainly can’t afford any more expenses, and certainly not a trial.”  
  
"Oh, stop being stupid!" Dean retorts. "Such a ridiculous complaint won’t ever go to court, and even then no one will convict you for a couple of overgrown branches! At worst you’ll have to hire someone to have it done asap—"  
  
"Excuse me for wanting the matter resolved before it comes to that, Dean," Cas snaps.  
  
Dean throws his hands up. “Don’t you get it? The matter will _never_ be resolved! That guy’s a dick, and when you’ll have cut your fucking tree he’ll be bothered by something else and be a bitch about it and then you’ll never get to do _any_ of the things you actually need to do.” He huffs. “God damn it, Cas! You can’t let people walk all over you like that!”  
  
"Oh, that’s rich coming from you," Cas snarls before turning away and taking off again. Apparently it’s now little to no effort to drag the cart after him.  
  
Dean frowns and hurries after him. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” he asks.  
  
"I mean that your devotion to other people, especially your family, might be admirable, but clearly it goes too far since when they take advantage of you as a consequence.  
  
Dean is now kind of lost. “The hell you on about? Sam doesn’t—”  
  
They have reached the allegedly offending tree. Cas lets down the handle of the cart, faces Dean and crosses him arms. “I’m not talking about Sam, although it’s quite interesting _and_ telling that he’s the first person you thought about, isn’t it?”  
  
Dean decides to ignore that remark. “Then who?”  
  
"Your dad, Dean. I’m talking about your dad," Cas says. "About how he never writes, almost never calls, but as soon as he does you have to drop everything and come like he tells you to."  
  
Dean blinks. “Yeah, so? How’s that taking advantage?”  
  
For a second, Cas looks nearly incredulous. His face darkens. “You were gone for over a week, Dean! During which _you_ barely even called, by the way. And when you came back, you looked like you hadn’t slept a wink the whole time. You put your whole life on hold, just like that, you didn’t even tell me or Sam where you were going, or what was so important that it required your immediate presence, or even how long you’d be gone. You didn’t even take into account what that might mean for the people you’d already agreed to fill in for at the garage—and you did it, why, because he asked?”  
  
"Yes," Dean bites back. "That’s called being a good son."  
  
"Well," Cas says, tugging the ladder out of his hands. "Then _this_ is called being a good neighbor.”  
  
Dean throws his hands up a second time. “Fine! Play the slave for that asshole if you want—but you know what? You’re on your own. Don’t come crying when the next thing he asks of you is to uproot your favorite apple tree because the wind carries the leaves onto his crappy lawn!”  
  
He turns away to leave.  
  
"Don’t _you_ come crying when it’s been months since you last heard of John, and you start wondering if he even cares since he never calls unless it’s to ask for something!” Cas shouts at his back.  
  
Dean briefly pauses, but with an effort he doesn’t whirl around, doesn’t lash out in reply.  
  
He storms away.

 

— — —

 

"So, what happened to the walnut tree?" Cain asks that evening, because it was hard not to notice the now lopsided look of the tree on the way back. It is now lacking a certain amount of branches and twigs on one side—and one side only.  
  
"I pruned it," Castiel replies curtly while he puts the honey jars he just finished labeling into crates—something that should’ve been done hours ago. His movements are brisk, almost careless, making the glass clink. "Marv complained about the shade and leaves."  
  
"I see." And he does, because after all these years, Cain knows all of his neighbors. All of their worst traits, too.  
  
(There is a document, in one of the drawers of his desk in his room, a list of complaints concerning what Marv ought to have done a long time ago near the borders of his own property, or ought to have stopped doing a long time ago in his relations to his neighbors. Cain’s been quietly compiling it for a while now, gathering data among the other people sharing a fence with that rat, like Rufus or Joshua—and the fact that even nice old Joshua has things to find fault with when it comes to Marv is a clear hint as to how insufferable that man is.  
  
Cain still has to go to Frank’s before he files a formal complaint. If he’s being honest he’s been putting back that visit for a while now. Mr. Devereaux is eccentric, paranoid, and talking to him is like pulling teeth.)  
  
"And where is Dean?" he asks. Usually, when Dean comes to visit on a Saturday, he stays the night so that he can accompany Castiel to the market early Sunday morning. But the man is nowhere to be seen.  
  
"He left," Castiel growls, before hefting the crate into his arms and leaving the room. He sounds angry and upset and hurt.  
  
It doesn’t take a genius to guess what happened. Marv has a knack for poisoning everything around him, through his words and through his mere presence.  
  
Cain narrows his eyes.  
  
(The following morning finds him standing on Mr. Devereaux’s porch, ready to knock.)

 

— — —

 

"Fair warning: this is shit," Dean announces, slamming the pan down onto the table and stomping back to the kitchen to fetch the pasta which he’ll probably say are overcooked.  
  
Sam raises his eyebrows but doesn’t comment. He knows already that it won’t be that bad, that the vegetable stir-fry’ll at worst be a bit burned at the edges, maybe a bit too salty. But he also knows that Dean won’t listen to him if he tries say so.  
  
It’s been going on for days—Dean being snappish and irritable, growing angry at the slightest frustration or hinder. He also hasn’t really left the bunker.  
  
He’s hasn’t gone to see Cas.  
  
Sam tried to ask once—when Dean came back fuming on Saturday afternoon, even though he hadn’t been expecting him till the following day—but he got shot down at once and since then…  
  
Something happened. Sam doesn’t know what, Dean won’t tell him what, but he can guess that there was a fight. He doesn’t know what it was about—can’t for the life of him think of anything Dean and Cas could be fighting about. Mom, when he called her—because of course he did—, told him to wait for Dean to calm down, before he tries to encourage him to open up.  
  
Only Dean isn’t calming down. Or, every time he looks like he is, something happens—something small, something innocuous, like the onions refusing to fry properly—that sets him off again.  
  
All that’s left is to hope Dean and Cas make up, and soon, because them being utter saps is bad, but this? This is _so much worse_.

 

— — —

 

Castiel is curled up in his bed, staring at the cell phone he holds in his hand. It’s on, which is normally never the case when he’s at home. He’s been fiddling with it for what feels like hours now, wondering, deciding, doubting, giving up, trying again only to change his mind half-way through, then change it again and—  
  
He’s half-way through typing Dean’s cell phone number for the fifth time when the screen lights up and the phone rings, displaying Dean’s name. Castiel nearly lets it drop. Instead he fumbles but manages to press the right button and bring it to his ear.  
  
"Hello?" he asks, mind racing, because this is his cell phone, and Dean _knows_ that he usually keeps it turned off, so why would he be calling that number? To say that he tried and that Cas didn’t answer, use it as an excuse for the fact that they’re still not talking? But at the same time it’s very late, and using the landline would definitely wake up Cain, which dean understandably would’ve wished to avoid, only—  
  
"Hey, Cas," Dean says, and Castiel’s thoughts screech to a halt. Dean sounds quiet, a bit grudging but a lot tired, a bit wary—exactly like Castiel feels.  
  
"Dean," he replies. "Hello."  
  
"How’ve you been?" Dean asks. "I imagine you managed to cut that tree without breaking your neck, if you’re walking and talking."  
  
"I didn’t cut the tree, just a couple branches." Okay, more than a couple, and the tree looks ugly now, mangled and sad and every time he sees it Castiel feels guilty—and angry at Marv for asking him to do that. "And I’ve been pruning our trees since I was a child, I wasn’t in any danger."  
  
"Okay, good" A short silence follows. "Look, Cas," he says, almost mumbles. "I’m… I’m sorry ‘bout what I said, okay? I just…" He pauses, and his voice comes out lower when he goes on: "I don’t like people treating you like crap."  
  
"I don’t like people treating you like crap either," Castiel returns.  
  
Dean starts protesting at once. “My dad doesn’t—”  
  
"It doesn’t matter," Castiel says, unwilling to start this again right now. "I shouldn’t have said what I said either." Not if he means it when he says and thinks that he is on Dean’s side.  
  
"Yeah, well." He can hear Dean shuffle on the other end of the line and wonders where he is—in his room, in the living room, outside the bunker… "We both suck, clearly."  
  
"Clearly," Castiel concurs. "But not always."  
  
Dean remains silent. He probably doesn’t agree, not when it comes to himself. Castiel bites back a sigh at that.  
  
"I miss you," he says instead, and feels how the words make Dean falter and shift, awkward. "Can I… Could we meet?"  
  
Dean’s answer is quick, certain. “Yeah, of course.”  
  
"Tomorrow, in the morning? I can come over, I want to—"  
  
"Cas, no," Dean cuts him off. "You have work at the farm, we both know it, that can’t wait."  
  
"I don’t care."  
  
"Well, I do," he replies firmly. Castiel knows it comes from a place of caring and tries not to feel hurt by the refusal—until Dean says: "I’ll come to you instead, ‘kay? And I’ll help, even though I suck at gardening, and it’ll be like last week before that dick Marv ruined everything."  
  
"… He _is_ kind of a dick,” Castiel admits.  
  
"Not kind of. _Totally_ ,” Dean snorts, obviously happy he got Castiel to agree with him. “But yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? Bright and early.”  
  
"Okay."  
  
"And you should go to sleep now, because you’n your dad are masochists and get up with the sun."  
  
"You too," Castiel tentatively teases back. "Because I _know_ you’ll try to be here as early as possible, and you have half an hour drive.”  
  
"Yeah, yeah," Dean replies grudgingly. "G’night Cas."  
  
"Good night, Dean."  
  
Still, it’s a couple of seconds before the call disconnects, because neither of them want to actually hang up.  
  
 _Tomorrow_ , Castiel thinks, heart in his throat, as he puts cell onto his bedside table. He burrows down between his covers and tries to get some sleep.

 

— — —

 

(Both Dean and Castiel get up early the next morning—yet they unsurprisingly don’t get around to doing anything until a lot later.  
  
Cain doesn’t either, but that’s because he can’t get any of the tools he needs from the shed. See, for the longest time there are two idiots there, blocking the way, making out against the door.)


	44. Chapter 44

Dean moves into the Knight farm by increments.  
  
At first it’s some toiletries in the bathroom: a toothbrush, some shaving cream, a razor—although that’s nothing, or rather nothing _surprising_ , with Dean spending the night from time to time, then more and more often.  
  
Then it’s clothes, a pair of jeans, a black t-shirt so old it’s turned grey, a couple of unfamiliar flannel shirts that turn up in the washing basket, in the pile of laundry to iron—although those might’ve been items Dean forgot on a hurried morning, or after having changed at the end of a whole afternoon spent helping in the garden.  
  
(The excuse doesn’t work for the jacket and shoes, though.)  
  
Then it’s books, modern American authors like Vonnegut or McCarthy or Kerouac, but also ancient foreign ones like Homer or Snorri Sturluson, who come crowd their shelves, sneak in between gardening treatises and Colette’s 19th century novels—although they could’ve been nothing but loans made by Dean (or Sam, who seems like the type) that Castiel forgot to return. That doesn’t account for the school books and journal articles that start lying around, because for some reason, Dean is now taking classes, and for some other reason, he prefers to do his homework and readings at the Knight’s, instead of at the so-called bunker.  
  
(Cain suspects it’s actually a strategy to get to see Castiel more, to drop by pretending he’s forgotten an important work somewhere.)  
  
Then it’s vinyls, soon accompanied by a music player because it turns out that Colette’s old one doesn’t work anymore—although this could’ve simply been the result of Dean’s wish to share something he likes with Castiel, about which Castiel only knows very little. The only music he’s ever really listened to is the one of birds, of insects, of leaves in the wind. Dean makes no secret that he considers that a sacrilege.  
  
(But curiously, after a while Dean’s classic rock albums end up interspersed with other genres—classical, folklore, recordings of rushing waves and exotic birds. Somehow Cain believes this is _not_ a sign that the boy’s tastes are expanding.)  
  
Then it’s kitchen utensils, of all things, which Dean brings one time to bake some sort of layered cake because apparently the Knight kitchen is not equipped well enough—although that might’ve been a one-time occurrence, with the utensils left to dry on the drainer and forgotten there.  
  
The mattress, though. The mattress is a dead giveaway, an undeniable step—although Cain doesn’t understand why said step took on that form.  
  
What’s the problem with Castiel’s mattress, he wonders. What is so wrong with it that Dean feels the need to carry his own from his room to his car, drive it from the bunker to the farm, and carry it again from his car to Castiel’s room?  
  
"This is memory foam," Dean grunts when Cain hazards an unimpressed question, like it explains everything.  
  
Cain has no idea what memory foam is supposed to be, but doesn’t point that out. Instead he silently follows his son and his son’s boyfriend—no, fiancé… _whatever_ —up the two flights of stairs. He doesn’t quite know if it’s to help in case an accident threatens to happen, or out of morbid curiosity.  
  
Dean and Castiel reach the last landing without harm. They put the mattress down, leaning against a wall, and go strip Castiel’s bed—their bed, now, Cain assumes—to take away the soon-to-be _former_ mattress.  
  
And okay, it does look a bit old and lumpy compared to his thick, white successor. Maybe.  
  
Said successor is heaved upon the base. Dean obviously thinks that that does it, if his satisfied sigh is anything to go by. Castiel doesn’t share that thought, and insists they re-do the bed, complete with drawsheet, undersheet and duvet.  
  
But once _that_ is done he doesn’t hesitate before following Dean, who collapses on his back onto the top sheet and sprawls with a relieved groan, his arms outstretched.  
  
"Nap," he announces, closing his eyes right here and then. Castiel huffs around an amused smile but seems to agree, since he rolls onto his side to settle right against Dean, his head on Dean’s shoulder, his arm slung around Dean’s waist.  
  
Cain concludes that the precarious undertaking that will be bringing the former mattress downstairs will have to wait, and that his presence is therefore unneeded.  
  
So he leaves them to their—apparently very comfortable—slumber.


	45. Chapter 45

It’s been raining since morning—a thick, even, damp curtain steadily falling, rustling on leaves and grass, preventing anyone from going outside for any length of time.  
  
The bees stayed safe in their hives and Cain and Castiel imitated them. They busied themselves for the day with small tasks to do around the house, replacing the washer of the kitchen sink or oiling the hinges of the door leading down to the basement, ironing the laundry and trying to repair an old pair of shears.  
  
Now evening is slowly approaching and they’re reading. Well, Cain is reading, sitting in the armchair right under the window with his newspaper. The light is low, gloomy, but he refuses to turn on a lamp because although it’s November, it’s barely 4 p.m. and you don’t turn on a lamp in the middle of the afternoon. Not in Cain’s house.  
  
Castiel is in the other room at the kitchen table—and okay, the lights are on there, but he has an excuse: he’s far from the windows and he needs to see clearly, surrounded as he is by notebooks, receipts and calculation sheets while he does the books, checks the farm’s profits and losses. The scritch of the pen is barely audible, covered up by the murmur of the rain, the pinging of raindrops against the window panes, where they slide down in rivulets, like the mark of tears.  
  
The phone rings.  
  
Castiel, who is closest to it and the most likely to be the person the caller is trying to reach, finishes his last addition and stands up. There is a giddiness in his step, something that tells Cain that the call was awaited and clues him in as to who’ll be at the other end of the line.  
  
"Hello," Castiel says into the receiver.  
  
His eyebrows hitch up when the other person speaks—not Dean, then—but he starts to smile anyway. “Sam. How are y—”  
  
He is, quite clearly, cut off. His half-smile fades.  
  
It is replaced by an expression Cain never wanted to see on his face, never wants to see again.  
  
"Wha— Where?" Castiel stammers as Cain closes his newspaper, giving up the pretense that he was still reading. "Where is he now? Is he okay?"  
  
Sam replies, and even Cain, from over a dozen feet away, can hear him, hear the frantic, tense tone in which he speaks. It’s unmistakeable.  
  
Cain stands up and comes closer while Castiel asks more questions that don’t have proper answers, and finally hangs up with trembling hands. He breathes out.  
  
"What happened?" Cain risks asking.  
  
"Dean—" Castiel says, turning towards him, eyes wide with panic and helplessness. "There was an accident. I—" His eyes dart around, looking for something they won’t find. "I have to go, and I have to fetch Sam, he can’t—"  
  
He tries walking past his father but Cain holds him back with a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder.  
  
"Dad—" Castiel protests at once, but Cain shushes him, his grip turning supportive.  
  
"I’ll drive," he says. "You’re in no state to do it, and I gather Sam isn’t either."  
  
"He still hasn’t been cleared by his doctors to be behind the wheel," Castiel explains. "And even if he could he has no car of his own, they only have the Impala and it— she—"  
  
"Castiel," Cain says, putting his other hand on his son’s shoulder and meeting his eye. "Breathe."  
  
Castiel tries to, even though it sticks in his throat. He tries again and breathes out slowly, haltingly, briefly hiding his face behind his hands—almost like a child believing that shutting out the world will make all the problems go away. When he lets them fall, Cain squeezes his shoulders encouragingly.  
  
"Come on," he says.  
  
They put on their shoes and raincoats, and go.

 

— — —

 

Once Sam is with them in the car, they get some answers.  
  
From what he knew himself and what was told by the person who called, Dean was driving back from the supermarket where he’d gone to get some supplies when something—an animal, a deer or maybe a cat, crossed the road right in front of him. He swerved to avoid hitting it, but the tires spun on the wet tarmac and sent him off the road, right into a tree.  
  
Apparently he was the one to call 911, though, suggesting he hadn’t lost consciousness, or at least not for long. When Sam received the call from the hospital, he was getting some stitches done.  
  
Sam and Castiel try to see these last pieces of information as a good thing, as sign that Dean wasn’t hurt too badly, that he hadn’t—  
  
Cain keeps silent and drives.

 

— — —

 

Sam barrels through the hospital doors and rams himself into the reception desk—and it’s a testament to how panicked people usually act that the woman sitting behind it doesn’t jump, but slowly, quietly looks up. Sam is unintelligible at first. It takes him almost a minute to make himself understood, and to be directed towards one of the waiting rooms.  
  
When he hears that, Castiel tenses, only to relax minutely when he learns that it’s not for them to wait there, but because that’s where Dean is currently doing the waiting, out of surgery and apparently being discharged.  
  
They find him sitting in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, foot jiggling up and down in impatience as he bites his lips, looking angry and anxious at the same time.  
  
When he catches sight of them he all but shouts “Finally!” and starts to stand up—only to be pushed back down by Sam, who checks him over for injuries as Castiel hovers nearby.  
  
Dean has a splint on his left wrist, scratches on the left side of his face and, above it, a large dressing on his forehead—probably where his stitches went. So it doesn’t look like he’s lying when he says:  
  
"I’m okay. I’m okay!" He bats Sam’s hands away. "It’s just a sprain, but Sam, I need a phone, my car—”  
  
Somehow Cain’s not surprised that Dean first concern is to his vehicle instead of to his own wellbeing.  
  
"I have no idea where—" Dean is saying. "They left her by the road, but maybe someone took her away since then, I don’t know, they won’t tell me. I have to call Bobby, gimme your phone, mine’s totalled.”  
  
From the looks of his jacket and the location of Dean’s injuries, Cain makes an educated guess and assumes that the Impala collided with the tree by its left side, and that the phone in question was in Dean’s left pocket.  
  
"What? Dean, now is not the time," Sam tries to reason. "Don’t you think that maybe making sure that you’re okay’s more impo—”  
  
"No!" Dean interrupts him, grimacing like the idea is absurd. "Screw that! I’m not going to be okay ‘till I know my car’s okay, okay? I have to call Bobby.”  
  
"Okay!" Sam half-shouts, exasperated. "Okay. But I’m the one making the call, and you better calm down."  
  
"I am calmed down!” Dean retorts just as loudly, garnering several incredulous and disapproving glares from the other people sitting in the room.  
  
Sam doesn’t bother to point out the obvious and leaves waiting room in a huff. On his way out he meets Cain’s gaze, a silent “I know" in reply to Cain’s probably unimpressed, and then he’s out, bringing his phone to his ear.  
  
When Cain looks back towards Dean, Castiel has come closer and is speaking, so low Cain can’t hear what he says. What he can see, though, is how Dean’s just deflated. Before Castiel even finishes, he’s out of his seat and pulling him into a hug. Castiel slumps right into it, returns it fiercely, finally letting go of his worry.  
  
Cain looks away, leaving them their privacy.

 

— — —

 

They all end up at the place where the Winchester boys live, which they name ‘the Bunker’.  
  
Seeing it, Cain sees how apt the name is.  
  
'Bobby' has been called and is on his way over. Cain wonders what's so important about him that Dean refused to leave the hospital until he was sure he'd be coming, especially since he's never heard of the man before.  
  
(Before leaving they also made a detour to see Colette, because they might as well since they were there and because Cain knew she would want to know.  
  
It was also her first time meeting Sam.  
  
The first words she said to him were: “You’re very tall.”)  
  
Cain is sitting at table, looking around at the layout of what he thinks is the living-room. Or maybe the library. Or maybe both. All he’s certain is that this is not how he pictured Dean’s lodgings.  
  
Sam’s lying on the couch, resting after all the tumult. Castiel is in the kitchen, preparing coffee or tea because it keeps his hands busy and keeping his hands busy always helps him when he’s stressed. He still hasn’t entirely recovered from the events.  
  
Dean is pacing.  
  
"Shouldn’t be here by now?" he finally bursts out.  
  
"It’s a six hours drive at least, Dean," Sam says, not even bothering to open his eyes. "You’re lucky it’s Saturday and he didn’t have anything better to do. And even if he’s already in Kansas now he has to find the Impala and tow it all the ways here—all the while not ending up in a ditch too." It’s still raining heavily. "Give him time."  
  
Cain still doesn’t know who ‘Bobby’ is and why his presence is so crucial—but he won’t ask. Unfortunately, Castiel won’t either, although Cain guesses it’s because he already knows the man, not because he’s prideful and stubborn.  
  
Which is… frustrating.

 

— — —

 

As it turns out, Bobby is a man about Cain’s age, with a cap, dirty clothes and a tow truck.  
  
Said tow truck is bringing the Impala—a quite bashed-in Impala, over which Dean starts making hurt noises at once. Or at least, up until the man steps out of his truck and starts growling at him for being a complete idiot.  
  
Dean cowers, but Cain recognizes the anger of a person who cares. A lot.  
  
Bobby’s a lot calmer when he greets Sam and Castiel. “It’s good to see you, boys,” he says, and that’s when Cain realizes that Castiel probably met him at one point or another, probably during one of the road trips he and Dean take on occasion.  
  
Somehow, the fact that Dean introduced Castiel to this man feels significant.  
  
When he’s introduced to Cain, they exchange gauging looks, a good handshake.  
  
Somehow, Cain already likes him much better than John Winchester.


	46. Chapter 46

Sometimes Sam really feels like Dean and Cas are missing out.  
  
It’ll be like this: it’s Sunday evening and they’re all at the bunker, Cas having followed Dean home at the end of the afternoon. Sam and Dean are at the table, both reading—a 17th century essay in Latin about what might be trepanation for Sam, an article for school for Dean—, while Cas sits in one of the armchairs, Sam’s laptop balanced on his lap while he watches videos on Youtube. Cat videos, probably.  
  
Fortunately, Cas can be counted on to never go overboard. When his video ends he turns off the computer, lowers the screen and carries it back to its owner.  
  
"I’m turning in," he announces, drifting towards Dean like he always tends to do whenever they’re in the same room. Dean doesn’t react, and only blinks out of his focused reading when Cas brushes a hand along his shoulders.  
  
"Oh," he says, obviously replaying the last seconds in his head. "Okay. I’ll join you in a tic, I just want to finish that first." He briefly raises the stapled sheets of paper he’s poring over.  
  
"Okay," Cas replies, bending down to drop a kiss on his forehead. "Work well, Dean."  
  
"Sleep well, Cas," Dean whispers back, eyes closed as if to better savor the feeling of Cas’ lips on his skin. He leans towards him when Cas steps back and bids Sam goodbye, follows his with his eyes as he walks out of the room. Then he shakes himself and returns to his work.  
  
And that’s all.  
  
'Dean.' 'Cas.' No endearments.  
  
No _pet names_.

 

— — —

 

Thing is, Sam always thought Dean would be all over burying his lover—if one of his hook-ups ever lasted long enough to deserve that name—in pet names. Okay, all along he thought it’d be a girlfriend instead of a boyfriend, but even then, the argument is still valid.  
  
The man calls his own car “Baby”, for God’s sake.  
  
Besides, with Cas being a beekeeper and selling honey and all, there is room for combining pet names and puns. A lot of puns. And Dean has never been able to resist one of those, especially if it’s bad.  
  
So really, it should be nothing but “honey bee” here, “buttercup” there, “big bee” here and “sweetie” there.  
  
But no. It’s just “Cas”—and “Dean”, because apparently Cas has no creativity either. And it’s cute that Dean has given his boyfriend a nickname, of course it is, but—  
  
But it could be so much more.

 

— — —

 

Fortunately for him, Sam has a good imagination. If he focuses right, if he listens right, he can easily superimpose Dean and Cas’ boring use of their respective names with the endearments they ought to be using.  
  
Like on a morning, when Cas stumbles into the kitchen with a frown on his face and a crazy case of bedhead, and Dean catches him, steadies him before he face-plants into the counter with an arm around his waist and an “Easy there, Cas.”  
  
Which in Sam’s head sounds like: “Easy there, Bumblebee.” That is to say, much better.  
  
Sam privately calls the state he has to be in for that to happen correctly, that headspace if you will, the Zone. Not that anyone’s asking.  
  
He likes the Zone. All is always well there.  
  
In the Zone, when Dean and Cas are supposed to go somewhere, Dean will take a breath in as he stands up and pat Cas on the shoulder with an “Okay, let’s go, Big Bee.”  
  
In there, when Dean works up a headache by frowning down at his essay for hours, convinced that no matter how much or how well he works on it the result will be crap and why the hell did he ever think he was cut out for college anyway, no way, he’s too dumb, he can’t, he—, Cas will cut off that train of thought by putting his hands on Dean’s shoulders and pressing, kneading the tense muscles there, working up to Dean’s nape, his temples, back to his shoulders, until Dean turns boneless, eyes closed, and Cas can drop kisses on the top of his head and murmur encouragements like “It’s okay, Sweetie” or “You’ll do great, Honey, I know it.”  
  
In the Zone, when, after hefting crates of objects and manuscripts for hours, trying to empty the third room on the right down the corridor, they take a break and go to the kitchen, Dean will take the homemade lemonade out of the fridge and give the first glass of it to Cas, and he’ll do so with a smile that is utterly smitten and bordering on turned-on—he makes no secret of just how much he enjoys watching Cas carry heavy things around and work up a sweat—and he’ll say: “That one’s for you, King Bee.”  
  
The Zone even works in less positive circumstances, like now: Dean and Cas are bickering about something or other at the table, but not far enough that Sam can’t hear them even over the sound of the TV. And when Cas huffs and straightens, tries to sound reasonable, all Sam hears is: “Look, Honeysuckle, we can’t—”  
  
That’s all he hears, because that one makes him giggle and—  
  
And that when he remembers that Jess is sitting right beside him on the couch. She is now staring at him with a nonplussed, nearly weirded-out look on her face.  
  
Which might be understandable, since they’re currently supposed to be watching a documentary on the conquest of New Zealand, which doesn’t warrant any giggling. Like, at all.  
  
"You okay, Sam?" she asks slowly.  
  
"Yeah, yes," he reassures her at once, because she looks like she’s a second away from pressing the back of her hand to his forehead to make sure he isn’t working up one of these fevers that make him delirious. "Just… zoning-out a bit."  
  
Which he certainly shouldn’t be doing with other people around.  
  
(Dean and Cas don’t count, because they’re oblivious and tend not to notice a thing apart from the other’s presence whenever they’re both in the same room.)  
  
"Okay," Jess says, clearly not convinced.  
  
Sam smiles reassuringly, reaching out a hand to twirl one of her golden curls around his finger. “I’m fine, I swear,” he says. And, because he’s one to practice what he preaches, he looks her in the eye and adds: “Sunshine.”


	47. Chapter 47

"And the next person we’re going to see is… Bobby," Castiel says hesitantly as the Roadhouse disappears around a corner in the rearview mirror.  
  
"Yup," Dean replies, head lolling in rhythm with the music coming from the speakers. His cheeks are flushed, a leftover from a good meal and the laughter that surrounded it. Ellen, Jo and Ash were delighted to see him—and delighted to meet Castiel.  
  
Castiel knows the same smile, the same blush lingers on his own face, albeit a bit more bashful. He was less at ease, given that he didn’t know these people, but they were extremely welcoming and Dean had been right about one thing: Ellen’s burger made him very happy.  
  
"I think we’ll stay there a day, actually," Dean goes on. "Baby deserves a good check-up."  
  
At that Castiel frowns minutely in confusion. “You know everything about cars, especially this one,” he says. “I’d think you’re perfectly capable of doing that yourself.”  
  
Dean throws him a look that says ‘Flatterer’. “Yeah, but you can never be too careful,” he says, turning back to the road. “And Bobby’s the best.”  
  
"That’s how you met him," Castiel guesses after nearly a minute of silence. "Something was wrong with the Impala and he helped you repair it."  
  
Dean nods. “More than wrong, actually,” he says, and launches into a story.

 

— — —

 

The story goes so:  
  
Once upon a time, back when Dean was young—okay, okay, Cas, young _er_ —and was drifting around the US in quest of something, there was an accident.  
  
Quite the accident, actually: he was driving in the middle of the night on a deserted stretch of road and reached a crossroads. He had right of way and kept driving—only the upcoming truck didn’t see him, or didn’t want to let pass a (comparatively) puny Chevy. It didn’t even slow down.  
  
When Dean came out of his brief coma and was discharged from the hospital, he went to find his car. Or what was left of it.  
  
His quest ended on a junkyard, with him confronting an old grump with a dirty baseball cap and demanding he give back the carcass of his Baby while the man in question claimed there was nothing to be done.  
  
The verbal spar went on for a long time.  
  
So long, actually, that the man was impressed, or maybe irritated enough by that kid who thought he knew better to let him stick around and try to do something and fail.  
  
(Never let it be said that Bobby Singer would pass up such a good opportunity to say “I told you so.”)  
  
Only Dean didn’t fail.  
  
He rebuilt the Impala from the ground up, salvaging what pieces he could from the original.  
  
And in the weeks it took him, especially while he was waiting for a part to be delivered, he got to know the owner of the place. He ended up crashing on his couch more often than not, in exchange for his help with other car repairs and some cooking—because even though at the time Dean wasn’t the fine cook he is today, what he could prepare was much better than anything Bobby tried himself at.  
  
By the time the Impala was brand as new, they’d developed a pretty nice relationship made of a lot of snark interspersed by silences and Dean had wormed his way far enough into the old man’s heart to win himself a standing invitation anytime he was nearby.

 

— — —

 

It’s only when they drive under the wooden arch displaying the words ‘Singer’s salvage yard’ that Castiel remembers to find it strange that Dean goes to this ‘Bobby’ instead of his father for a car check-up.  
  
John is, after all, a mechanic too.  
  
The surprise dissolves, though, when he sees the way they’re welcomed. Dean is mauled by an enormous dog as soon as he steps out of his car, ends up squished against the Impala’s side and slobbered all over. By the time the beast calms down enough to drop back on its four feet a man has emerged from the house.  
  
He looks exactly like Dean described him, with a bread, dirty jeans and an even dirtier cap.  
  
He gives Dean a hug.  
  
"So, um, this is Cas," Dean says when they part, gesturing for Castiel to come closer. "Cas, this is Bobby."  
  
"It’s a pleasure," Castiel says as they shake hands.  
  
"Likewise," the man replies gruffly. His grip is firm, a bit challenging, while the look in his eyes is wary and evaluating.  
  
He cares a lot, that much is clear. It makes Castiel smile.

 

— — —

 

Dean is at ease here, that much is clear. All within the first half hour, he helps himself to a beer in the fridge—and criticizes the rest of its content—, squints at the yard through the window—snorting at the filth on the glass—, sprawls on the lumpy couch—remarking on the amount of crumbs on the cushions and carpet—and frees a cushion for Castiel to sit by unceremoniously dumping a couple of books on the coffee table—complaining about the dust that rises up at once.  
  
Bobby rises to the bait and makes a show of being vexed, but he does it so eagerly that Castiel guesses neither he nor Dean are actually serious. This is just a (very) peculiar brand of teasing.  
  
Jabs fly back and forth between them, followed by quieter enquiries—about how Sam and Mary are doing, about the bunker, about Castiel himself—until the beers are gone. By that point it’s late enough that they all retreat to bed. Or rather, Bobby retreats to bed and Dean expertly unfolds the couch before throwing sheets and blankets on it.  
  
It groans and falters under his and Castiel’s combined weight, but holds, by some miracle.  
  
The following morning, Castiel wakes up alone.  
  
Light is streaming through the window, which is not surprising. He might rise with the sun when at home, but as soon as he’s in a more unfamiliar environment what he suspects is his genuine nature takes control again and makes him sleep way past usual, undisturbed by anything that might happen around him.  
  
Feeling a bit fuzzy around the edges, he stumbles out of bed and follows his nose to the kitchen, where a pot of coffee has been set to brew. He pours himself a steaming cup and, instead of sitting at the table, carries it with him while he ambles through the room. He throws a look through the window, at the beautiful weather outside; he listens to the quiet; he lingers in front of the huge bookshelves, eyes catching nothing but unfamiliar titles, some in foreign languages; he pauses near the desk, eyes caught by a gathering of pictures: Bobby with another grumpy old man, both holding hunting guns; Bobby with a younger Dean, who’s proudly beaming at the camera, leaning on the hood of a shiny Impala; Bobby himself younger, standing in front of the house back when it was a lot less shabby, one arm thrown around the shoulders of a slight blond woman.  
  
"That’s Karen," Dean says from behind him. Castiel doesn’t startle—he’s heard the Impala pull up, the kitchen door open and close, the steps come closer. "Bobby’s wife. Well, ex-wife."  
  
Dean reaches out around Castiel, proffering a bag full of freshly fried donuts. Castiel gingerly picks one and asks, looking back at the picture: “What happened?”  
  
"She wanted kids. He didn’t," Dean replies, mouth full. “‘pparently, she wanted kids more than she wanted him."  
  
Castiel’s brow creases in compassion for their host. Dean notices.  
  
"It’s okay," he says. "It was a long time ago. Before I even met him." He looks down at the picture. "He had his reasons for not wanting kids."  
  
Castiel feels like there is a story here, but knows it’s not his place to ask, or Dean’s to tell.  
  
"What about you?" Dean asks after a while.  
  
Castiel glances over at him as he finished his donut. “What about me?”  
  
"Would you want some? Kids?" Dean’s tone is light, but there is something underneath, something that tells Castiel the question is not as casual as it sounds.  
  
"I don’t know," he says, looking back down at the picture, at that young woman, the quiet but hopeful look in her eyes. "To be honest, I never really thought about it."  
  
Which answers the question, really.  
  
"Same," Dean grunts. "I mean, it never seemed like something that was in the cards for me. Far too much responsibility. Lisa had Ben, but that’s not the same."  
  
Castiel nods.  
  
"Plus, we already have our hands full. You with your bees—"  
  
"—and you with your car," Castiel finishes for him.  
  
"Right," Dean laughs. He slings an arm around Castiel’s waist to pull him closer and drops a sticky kiss on his temple. "Come on," he adds, patting Castiel’s hip. "Let’s put all this in the kitchen and I’ll show you where the bathroom is."

 

— — —

 

The day progresses quietly, with a slow morning followed by a short lunch. In the afternoon Dean and Bobby get down to business, squinting at every inch of the Impala, scrutinizing her inside and out, while Castiel sits in the shade, the cooler and Rumsfeld at his feet. The dog, much like his master, has let go of some of its wariness.  
  
"I hope you didn’t feel too bored," Dean says once they’re done. The day is drawing to a close, the light turning golden and the shadows lengthening. The quality of the air has shifted to something soft, almost mellow. Much like Castiel is feeling after lazing for hours.  
  
He looks up at Dean, blinking slowly as he traces his features, notices the brightness in his eyes, the riot of freckles on his face. His nose and the back of his neck have turned red. He’ll complain about it tomorrow, no doubt, but for now he looks happy. Castiel returns his smile.  
  
"It’s okay."  
  
He spent the whole afternoon watching his boyfriend leaning over the hood of a car, working with these deft hands of his, wearing nothing but a pair of old jeans and an even older t-shirt that soon started to stick to his skin. Of _course_ it was okay.  
  
He takes a beer from the cooler, but only hands it over in exchange for a kiss.

 

— — —

 

"So, where d’you plan on going next?" Bobby asks over dinner. He’s digging into it with even more gusto than Dean, but that might be because he doesn’t get to eat homemade food that often on top of being ravenous.  
  
"Great lakes," Dean replies with his mouth full. A stern look from Bobby makes him swallow before he adds: "We’ll drive along the northern bank of Lake Superior and double back between Georgian Bay and Ontario Lake, straight through Michigan and Illinois."  
  
Bobby grunts. “Long drive.”  
  
"Got the time for it," Dean replies with a shrug.  
  
"You’re aware half that journey will be through Canada, right?"  
  
At that Dean pauses, before he shrugs again. “Yeah.”  
  
By now Bobby’s full on frowning. “Who are you?”  
  
"Hey, it’s Cas who suggested it, I’m just the driver," Dean retorts, throwing up his hands in defense.  
  
”Right,” Bobby says, voice laden with sarcasm. He throws Castiel a look, clearly unconvinced. Castiel bits back a smile.

 

— — —

 

They leave the following morning. The Impala purrs in the early quiet, Rumsfeld whines because his wariness toppled over into attachment the night previous, when he spent an hour with his head resting on Castiel’s lap, getting his ears scratched while Bobby and Dean spewed their outrage at the television about the Spanish telenovela they were (allegedly) not watching. Bobby is standing on the doorstep, hands stiffly stuck in his pockets, as if his arms and shoulders need to make up for the short, gruff hugs he delivered to both Dean and his boyfriend.  
  
"You boys come back any time, okay?" he finally says.  
  
They both nod and wave, Dean shouts a sassy goodbye and eases the car into drive before Bobby can react.  
  
"That was nice," Castiel says once they’ve left Sioux Falls behind and turned east.  
  
"Yeah?" Dean says, a bit tentative still.  
  
"Yes. We’ll have to come back someday soon," Castiel adds. He doesn’t want Rumsfeld to miss him too much.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye he sees Dean smile, relax in his seat.  
  
"If we survive Canada,” he mutters. And, before Castiel even has the time to roll his eyes: “Hey, when we’re there, remind me to buy Sam one of those moose mugs, okay?”


	48. Chapter 48

Say what you want, but when you have an appointment with the school counselor and said counselor turns out to be younger than you are, you can’t help but wonder where you went wrong with your life.  
  
Those are Dean’s thoughts as he shuffles into the office after the young woman. “Call me Marie,” she said—and yeah, no, no way. If anything’s weirder than getting advice from a kid, it’s getting advice from a kid who wears the same name as your own mother.  
  
Seriously, how old is she? Were he a bartender he would card her and feel tempted to find her parents’ phone number to send her home.  
  
… But then his perception is kind of skewed, he knows: everyone Sam’s age or younger is a baby in his books.  
  
"So, Dean," Marie says, bringing him out of his thoughts. She’s brought up his file and is now resting both her forearms on it with her fingers interlaced. She looks confident and professional—a world away from how he feels. "What can I do for you?"  
  
The question feels like a test: she knows why Dean’s here, he told her in the email he sent to set up the interview. He fumblingly manages to explain the issue—again—, like when he and Sam and Cas talked about it: he’s been following nondegree classes at KU, but would actually like to know if it’d be possible to take more and start on an actual degree. And if some of his previous classes could count, that’d be awesome.  
  
She nods once he’s done, apparently satisfied. For some reason Dean keeps sweating.  
  
"Okay," Marie says, straightening up in her seat. "The good news is, given your results it shouldn’t be a problem. There’ll be paperwork, of course, and it would be great if you could get a couple recommendations from your teachers. Then there’s your own application letter—which brings me to the most important point."  
  
She slides a sheet out of his file. From the looks of it, it’s a transcript, which she peruses for a second, brow furrowed.  
  
"In order for your application to meet its aim, you have to convince the board to give you a chance and for that, you need a solid project, a reason why you’re applying that goes beyond a simple ‘having a degree sounds cool’ or ‘my parents made me do it’." Dean’s about to protest he’s far too old for his parents to make him to anything—really, he is, unless what his mom wants him to do is mow the lawn and there’s pie in it for him—, but Marie silences him with a look. "In short, you need to have a clear view of where you intend to go with this."  
  
"Okay," Dean says.  
  
"It’ll also determine the major you’ll be choosing. Do you have any idea about that?"  
  
"Um." It’s kind of the whole reason why he’s here in the first place. "I’m not sure?"  
  
Her lips quirk down in faint disapproval. Dean would’ve been happy to live his existence without earning himself such a look from a girl at least ten years his junior.  
  
"That much is clear from your record," Marie says, glancing down at his transcript. "Up until now you have taken classes in biology, business management, child and teen psychology, computer science… To be honest, I have a hard time myself seeing a pattern or a clear direction—and the board will be in the same predicament. Now, what you need is to be able to explain these choices and show how they’re all part of your project."  
  
Dean nods slowly, which Marie seems to interpret as a confirmation that he has, indeed, a ‘project’.  
  
"Care to enlighten me?" she prompts when he doesn’t volunteer any information.  
  
And yeah, Dean knew coming in that it’d come to that, but that doesn’t make it any less awkward.  
  
"Yeah, well, it’s stupid, really."  
  
She raises an eyebrow, more than unimpressed. Seriously, she could give Cain a run for his money.  
  
"Okay, see, my bo— my fiancé. He—" Dean briefly interrupts himself, wary, but Marie doesn’t bat an eyelash. "He has this farm, near Lebanon, he’s a bee keeper. And he’s doing okay, he’s doing great, he even has his dad to help right now, but— but he won’t always, you know? And I want to be able to help him, even before that. I mean, we’re gonna build a life together and I have to be able to—" He trails off, shrugs. "Only I don’t know the first thing about plants, or bees, or farming, or accounting, or— or anything, really. Give me the farm now and it’ll go bankrupt in a week, I’m sure. So I was just trying to, you know, learn a bit of everything, what with biology and business management—and computer science, because I think he could totally set up a website to sell his honey to more people, start making shipments or something. And then there are the kids, we’re setting up a project with the sheriff, over the summer we’ll have kids over, from the orphanage—take them outside, out of their heads, have them get their hands dirty. So I thought it’d would be better if actually knew how kids work, a bit. I mean, it’s been a while since I was one. Cas is really excited about it, you see, and the sheriff is kind of counting on me, so I really want this to work and— and I’m coming off as totally dumb, ain’t I?”  
  
While he was speaking a weird expression has taken over Marie’s face. Her lips are parted, her eyes a bit glazed. Clearly that speech isn’t what she expected.  
  
She startles a bit at Dean’s change of tone and pace, pushes her thick-framed glasses back up her nose. “No. No, not at all,” she assures him, almost too quickly for it to be entirely convincing. “It’s sweet. It’s— Cas, is that your fiancé’s—”  
  
She seems to remember where they are and stops talking. Cheeks flushing slightly, she clears her throat and straightens up.  
  
"I mean," she says. "You clearly have a purpose, which is very good for your application. It’s just a bit… rough, right now. You just need a little bit of guidance to turn it into something concrete." She smiles, suddenly a lot warmer and more supportive than she’s been since the start of their meeting. Dean’s kind of confused as to why. "Fortunately it’s my job to help with that. So, let’s get down to business and see what we can come up with."

 

— — —

 

(“Oh. My. God,” Marie says that evening when she enters the apartment she shares with her high school best friend Maeve—who’s currently on the couch, hate-watching Dr. Sexy MD. “I had the cutest gay guy come into my office today, you won’t believe it.”  
  
Maeve throws her an inquisitive look.  
  
"And then when he left I watched through the window and saw him get picked up by his boyfriend who was even cuter and oh my _god_ , Maeve, sometimes real life _can_ be better than fiction!”  
  
Maeve narrows her eyes, then bundles her duvet tighter around herself so that one of the couch cushion is freed. She pats it authoritatively, ordering Marie to sit.  
  
"Tell me everything.")


	49. Chapter 49

Sometimes, Mary wonders. She thinks about her eldest son, out on the road, out in the world, and she wonders.  
  
 _What are you looking for?_  
  
Or, rather—for after all this time he should have found it, whatever it is, he would deserve to have found it, so maybe it isn’t that he’s looking for something, but instead: _What are you running from?_  
  
She receives postcard after postcard, random pictures of random places, cheap shots of cheap attractions—always different, always left behind before she even knew he’d been anywhere near them. She receives phone calls, from time to time—always awkward, always disrupted by the noisy background of places where you can never be alone, but will always be lonely. She receives some visits—always too brief, always leaving nothing but the bittersweet aftertaste of worry in their wake. And she wonders.  
  
She remembers Dean as a child, afraid of his parents fighting, of his father leaving, eyes wide as he held little Sammy in his arms, against his heart, like Sam was his only anchor in a world that was falling apart, was being torn apart by the very people who should’ve kept it safe and sound.  
  
She remembers Dean as a teenager, awkward and defensive, full of unease about the changes in his body, in his self, about the way people looked at him, at the choices he was about to make, about the judgement he could feel in their eyes—and in his father’s silences, and in himself.  
  
She remembers Dean as a young man, weary, wary, carrying the cracked heart of one too often set apart, too often left behind—by his father for a better family, by his brother for a better place, by his girlfriend for a better life, every single one of them a tether that he’d tried to throw but that had been sharply cut, until the few that were left were too weak to hold him back on their own, and he’d been set adrift.  
  
And now, years later, he’s still lost. Always moving, never settling. And Mary wonders—  
  
Why? Why is life so intent on riddling his road in pitfalls, when he’s done nothing to deserve it, when it sails smooth for her youngest? Why is Dean’s giving soul so often ignored, so easily dismissed, why does it get so little in return when it offers so much? Why do people not see, why do they never bother to look twice and see—past the easy smiles, the forced cockiness, the empty bluster?  
  
Why is it that even now, especially now, her boy still doesn’t get to fit in anywhere, to have a home?  
  
And she wonders what she can do—or rather, what she could have done, should have done, in the past, for things to be different. If she could’ve done something more, to protect Dean, to reassure him, to let him have the childhood he’d started losing with her and John’s divorce; if she should’ve done something else, so he could go to school, build his own life, have the time and space to find his own people, his own path, his own home; if—  
  
If, if, if.  
  
And she doesn’t know which is worse: that there was, indeed, something that she could’ve, should’ve done, but hadn’t; or that there was nothing to be done, nothing at all, and that no matter what, no matter how, she would’ve failed.  
  
Whichever the answer may be, that oh-so-human failure remains the hardest thing to accept for her as a parent. As a mother.

 

— — —

 

(Thing is, for a while, she believed, almost believed, that he’d found it—whatever “it” was: happiness, stability, family, _home_. With Lisa and Ben. For nearly a year, he was in a fixed place and she knew where he was, how to reach him, when to see him.  
  
She was so confused, so angry, when he let it all drop to go look after Sam—back when it didn’t seem like Sam needed any looking after, back when Sam didn’t even want it, didn’t even realize—  
  
Because even though Dean and Sam were separated by years and miles and differences of character and opinion, even though Sam had been clear about how little he wanted to have to do with his family, with Dean in his brand new life, even though they barely saw each other, barely talked outside of holidays, Dean knew at once. He was the first to realize—before the doctors, before the people that called themselves Sam’s friends, before Sam himself—that something was wrong. Really wrong. And he was the first one—the only one—to try and do something about it.  
  
In the end, he couldn’t prevent much from happening—not with Sam’s stubbornness and denials, his rejections and dismissals, not with Mary’s lack of understanding and support. But Mary believes, now, that it’s only thanks to Dean that the worst was averted.  
  
She didn’t realize it at the time.  
  
And when she first did, she still didn’t understand why Sam had to take precedence over Dean, over his new-found family; why Dean had to give up on what he’d finally found; why he had to make the choices that put him on an uncertain path, in a life that wouldn’t be his own. Again.  
  
It isn’t until later, much later, years down the road, that she realizes: Dean hadn’t find anything with Lisa and Ben. Or at least, not anything for himself. At best he’d been trying—trying to fit himself in an ideal, an expectation, a mold that would reassure Mary but didn’t suit him any better than the ones before. He’d felt it. Lisa and Ben had felt it, too.  
  
That was why it had been so easy for them to let him go.)

 

— — —

 

“Mom, this is Cas. Castiel,” Dean says, and for a second the concern constantly gnawing at her insides, the worry grinding down her spine, pause.  
  
For a second.  
  
Because after all this time, she knows better than to let herself hope.

 

— — —

 

But then, unbelievably, one things leads to another, with the unexpected ease of a row of pearls finding their place on a string, and it comes to this:  
  
The drive back from Lawrence is quiet and relaxed, Dean tapping his finger against the steering wheel in rhythm with the music playing soft but perky from the speakers. He’s left his jacket and plaid shirt in the back seat, his left elbow rests on the door, his lips are curved into the faintest of smiles. In the back of the truck, an old dresser and a couple of bookshelves hiccup with the irregularities of the road.  
  
When they arrive at the Knight farm, Castiel soon comes out of the house to see what Dean brought back as promised.  
  
“What d’you think?” Dean asks, nervous and proud at the same time as he waits for the answer.  
  
Castiel steps back from the truck. “It’s perfect,” he says, wrapping an arm around his boyfriend’s—no, fiancé’s—waist to kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you.”  
  
Mary gives them directions while they unload truck and bring the pieces of furniture one by one up to their room. She lingers there once they’re done and have gone back down, watching the familiar dresser that spent years facing Dean’s twin bed now now wedged in a new corner, watching the squat shelves that spent years gathering dust in her attic, her garage, now lining the slanting walls. A couple of books—Dean’s school books, mostly—have already been put up, and will soon be followed by the other piles lying around. Less familiar are the small desk pushed right under the round window at the end of the room, the covers and sheets on the large bed, the bedside tables, the various trinkets spread out on every surface.  
  
The combination of the two—objects known and unknown—wakes the strangest feeling inside of her.  
  
When she follows her son and almost-son-in-law downstairs, she finds the former collapsed on the couch, exhausted after the drive to Lawrence and back, after carrying things up and down several flights of stairs. As she clears the last step Castiel comes into the room from the kitchen. He’s obviously been shooed away by his father, who parked the truck in its usual spot once they were done with it and is now preparing tea, spooning honey into the cups.  
  
Mary takes one of the armchairs. Dean snatches Castiel by the wrist as soon as he’s close enough and tugs him down. Castiel comes without much resistance, settles right against Dean who shifts to accommodate him, tilts his head to nuzzle at his dark hair and closes his eyes with a happy sigh.  
  
“Home sweet home,” he mutters.  
  
Mary ducks her head to hide a smile.


	50. Chapter 50

"So," Mary says. "Not that I’m not happy to have you all gathered this nice evening—" She lets her eyes go from one face to the other, smile widening when she meets Cas’ eyes, which in turn makes Dean’s smile widen, because his mom likes Cas and it’ll never cease to make him feel dopey inside. "—but may I ask what’s the occasion?"  
  
Her eyes come to rest on Sam and Jess, the instigators of the evening. Jess twitches a smile, Sam shifts on his seat, hands almost jerking on the cutlery—they’re both nervous. Which is kind of totally suspicious.  
  
Dean shares a glance with Cas, with Mary, knows they’re thinking the same thing.  
  
"Yeah, what is it?" he prompts after several seconds of silence, during which both Sam and Jess failed to provide an answer. The words sets off the most ridiculous half-whispered exchange (”you wanna tell them?” — “they’re _your_ family” — “you’re the first concerned” — “you are too” — “that’s not the same” — “oh, I believe it _is_ , and if you think otherwise…” — “okay, okay, point, but—” — “so _you_ tell them” — “no, _you_ ”) which, of course, Jess wins. Sam clears his throat, straightens in his seat but his shoulders remain slightly hunched when he says:  
  
"We’re having a baby."  
  
…  
  
"I’m pregnant," Jess adds for clarification in the stunned silence that follows.  
  
For some reason that one fares better, but that might be due to the helpless smile that spreads over Sam’s face and which inevitably brings out its likes on his mother and brother’s lips. Mary coos, joining her hands, Dean says: “Really? That’s—”  
  
But he doesn’t get to finish, because Sam goes on: “And since we want the baby to be born in a family acknowledge by the law…”  
  
“We’re getting married,” Jess quips, brandishing her hand where a simple ring now rests. No diamond or jewels, not from the broke student she chose—again—as her boyfriend, but from the way she beams, it couldn’t matter less.  
  
“In two and a half months,” Sam adds.  
  
They look so happy Dean simply continues his sentence: “—awes—” Until what Sam just said actually registers. “Wait, _what_?”

 

— — —

 

Castiel and Dean are well suited for each other. In the years during which they’ve been together—and have stayed together—, Cain has realized that, has gone from wary skepticism to a quiet admission of fact. Now it’s become something that he knows, a truth of life he carries in himself like the rhythm of seasons and the habits of his bees.  
  
But from time to time something will happen, or he’ll notice something, and he’ll be stricken all over again by the way they are with each other, by how Castiel is with Dean, the way he’d never been with anyone else before. By what it means.  
  
Most of the time, it’s not even something big that will bring about that realization. Take this morning, for example. Nothing’s out of the ordinary. Dean has come down first, as he often does, and is cooking breakfast—eggs and bacon and toast—after having put the coffee to brew. His hair is a mess, his face still slightly scrunched up like he can’t seem to get used to the early morning light streaming through the windows, but his gestures are swift and sure.  
  
Castiel is a lot less gracious by the time he drags himself downstairs. He hasn’t showered yet, hasn’t shaved and his scruffy face is set into a deep frown—because contrary to what his early riser’s habits may suggest, Castiel is very much _not_ a morning person. Everyone in the family knows it, and Dean knows it too, which is why he doesn’t speak, doesn’t force Castiel into any form of interaction, just hands him over the large mug of coffee he filled as soon as he heard Castiel’s steps shuffling down the stairs.  
  
Castiel takes it with a faint grunt and plops down into a chair, scowl still firmly in place.  
  
By the time Dean finishes breakfast, Castiel has downed half his cup, which means he’s gone from angry at the day for starting to feeling victimized by its implacable progress. He drags his chair closer to Dean’s as soon as Dean sets everything on the table and sits, just so he can hide his face into the crook of Dean’s shoulder. Dean wraps a soothing arm around his shoulder and proceeds to eat and drink one-handed.  
  
It takes him a lot longer to finish that way. (Cain still hasn’t figured out how he manages to cut or fold his bacon with just a fork either.) But Dean doesn’t mind. He might get up in a morning far more lucid and agreeable than Castiel, but he likes to take his time afterwards, enjoying the quiet.  
  
So yes, in that matter, he and Castiel are once again perfectly compatible.  
  
Dean waits until Castiel’s finished with breakfast—that is to say with his coffee and the toasts he steals from Dean’s plate—to venture to say something. He rubs his hand up Castiel’s back, all the way up to his head which he scratches for a little while before dropping a kiss on top of it and asking: “Do you remember what happened last night?”  
  
And that’s when Cain quirks his eyebrows, because it isn’t like Dean to broach the subject of his and Castiel’s intimacy when his father-in-law is around, so he can only wonder what this is about.  
  
He hasn’t heard them come in, so he doesn’t know anything.  
  
Castiel squints for a second before recollection smoothes out his brow. He blinks, he straightens up. Dean has started grinning and is now positively beaming.  
  
“Yes,” Castiel says, with a hint of a smile on his own lips.  
  
Cain doesn’t know if he should be worried or not. Fortunately, Dean is considerate enough to turn to him and announce: “We’re gonna be uncles.”  
  
Cain must look confused, because Castiel explains: “Jessica is pregnant. She and Sam are getting married in May.”  
  
"Isn’t that a bit rushed?” Cain asks cautiously—every single relationship seems rushed to him, but he knows that the years it took him to 1. realize Colette was the love of his life, 2. actually do something about it (well, stop resisting when Colette did) and then 3. start considering marriage were not the norm.  
  
Dean almost flails. “That’s what I said!”  
  
“You also said that you’ve known for over a decade that they were going to tie the knot one day,” Castiel points out. He turns to his father. “Sam said they’d been talking for marriage and kids for a while, but that the plan might’ve been set in motion sooner than expected.”  
  
So it was an accident. But a happy one, Cain gathers. And then—as Dean sing-songs: “We’re going to be the best uncles ev _eeer_ ” and Castiel kisses his smiling lips—he realizes:  
  
He’s going to be a great uncle. Okay, great uncle-in-law or something, but still.  
  
…  
  
He has to tell Colette.

 

— — —

 

It’s a quiet afternoon—a rainy afternoon, which means that everyone is inside. Cain and Dean are in the living-room, reading—the newspaper for Cain, the second book in Druon’s The Accursed Kings series for Dean—, while Cas sits at the kitchen table, doing the books.  
  
On the floor between the armchair and the couch, little Rosie—left in Dean and Cas’ care for a week after a lot of fretting from both her parents, but especially Sam—is playing with her cubes.  
  
Or at least, she was, but she’s apparently decided that something’s missing. Holding a bright red piece in her right hand, she wobbles onto her still inexperienced feet, all on her own.  
  
It’s quite funny how all three men’s focus goes from half-half between what they were reading and the baby girl to 99.9 percent to the latter, without any of them actually glancing up. Well, it’s funny, until you start thinking about what could happen to an adventurous child around here and suddenly the Knight farm becomes nothing but the most dangerous wilderness she could wander into.  
  
Dean surreptitiously looks up to check what she’ll do. She takes one step, two, stumbles but doesn’t fall, waddles forward until she loses her balance and collapses right against a pair of knees.  
  
Cain’s pair of knees.  
  
Which was apparently her aim all along. She beams victoriously up at him, delighted. “Ga!” she says, knocking her cube against his kneecap.  
  
Cain stares down at her.  
  
Dean and Cas exchange glance across the room. Cain interacts very little with Rose. Mostly he hovers nearby, only rarely agrees to come closer or talk to her, never touches her or takes her into his arms. Oh, he’s not mean, not even threatening. It looks more like he’s… afraid, of hurting her, like he forgot he had two kids of his own and took care of them as much as their mother when they were little (or so Colette says, fond and, all these years later, still amused).  
  
Of course, his distant behavior means he’s the most fascinating presence ever in Rosie’s eyes.  
  
(It might also be his hair, which keep growing without control, like Cain forgot the concept of a haircut. Sam’s bad influence, Dean’s sure. Clearly, no one’s safe.)  
  
Anyway, what it boils down to is: despite the more or less permanent scowl etched on his face, despite the quirked eyebrows, despite the stare that makes you feel like he’s picturing how to best disembowel your body, Cain does not frighten Rosie at all. As proven by her fearless smile while she stares right back at him, expectant.  
  
Seconds drag by. And then—  
  
And then Dean sees something he never thought he would see: Cain’s dour expression… melts.  
  
He smiles.  
  
And for once, it’s not scary at all.

**Author's Note:**

> The entirety of the 'verse can also be found [here on tumblr](http://princessniitza.tumblr.com/tagged/the%20knights%20and%20their%20bees). Please don't hesitate to leave comments if you enjoyed the fic :)


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